Right, so this is a far from pleasant blog, as the heading tells you.
So, this weekend I popped off to Margate with my lovely mother and grandfather. We behaved ourselves for a full day, until Saturday, when I was asked to be the sacrificial Designated Dave and off I drove my elders to the pub, so they could get sloshed.
I’m going to skip ahead quickly – mainly because the banal details of how I ended up hugging the toilet bowl, eyes streaming and fully believing parts of my stomach were swirling around in the (…well… I won’t gross you out, but you get it), are pointless.
Lesson learnt 1: Don’t go drinking with a 19 year old.
Not only can they out do you, but they’re smart enough not to try. They remain pretty. You don’t. Although, to be honest, she was an absolute ball.
Lesson learnt 2: Do not try to convince some brauns-no-brain plonker that religious arguments are pointless.
Just shut up. They won’t stop. Ever….
Lesson learnt 3 (and most importantly): Do not drink blue shooters on an ulcer.
Why it takes two mind-numbing lessons to teach me this, I haven’t the foggiest. The last time I got plastered, was through some other blue, toxic nonsense that led to loose morals and stomach contents.
It took a week for me to recover. Not fully, as for over a month I struggled to eat anything – the consequence of pouring neat alcohol onto a gaping hole in your innards.
This time it was bubblegum tequila. I hate bubblegum. I hate tequila, so how I had so much, god only knows.
There is no hyperbole when I say I thought I lost chunks of my stomach lining. The pain was so intense that I barely believed I was alive. Long after any alcohol had left my system in the projectile sort of way, I still lay sprawled over the bowl, calling God on the Great White Telephone.
Sleep-induced delirium didn’t help me. How sleep came (and so deeply!) in my state floors me, but every time the spasms passed, I slipped back, which means that the pain took on strange and gnarly contours, becoming a real and living thing, rather than a symptom.
I eventually stopped, well, mostly and heedless of my appearance managed to pack, climb into the car and snooze myself back into normalcy.
My pain was noticed during the night – others knew of my ulcer and realised that this wasn’t any hangover, but rather a horrible situation, triggered by bloody blue shooters.
And yet, come morning, the jokes ensued. I know I should have expected them, but I wonder why, when the world knows of your affliction (ulcer, not alcoholism), does it all become moot, when triggered by booze?
So. Moral of the story – do not drink blue shooters on an almost healed ulcer.
PS. My friend recently posted a rather personal blog on the effects of over-thinking – ‘Why didn’t I do this?’ ‘Why did I say that?’ ‘Why didn’t I stick up for myself‘ etc etc…we all know the feeling. I’d tag her in this, but I believe her blog to be very personal, so won’t, but now I’m afflicted with the same bloody disease. Pre-puke, I was rather happy and very friendly. I’m a loving drunk – everyone is beautiful and I give much needed advice (not!) to the young’uns and know better than everyone else. I try to fix fights, hug and touch everyone (usually, in the normal platonic way) and am just amicable. So, post-puke I find myself wondering – Why did I do that? Why did I confront the idiot in my nice and amicable way? Did he take it the wrong way when I touched his arm? I’d rather return to mid-puke than have anything with that lunk of dumb.
There are few things worse than drunken woes and toilet bowls. 😦