Barfy Barferson

Last night I fell asleep on the cold tiles of my bathroom floor curled around the toilet in a protective embrace. I'd never noticed the ticking of the bathroom clock before, but early this morning if I'd had the strength, I would have stood and ripped that goddamn thing off the wall and thrown the batteries away. Every tick-tick mocked my pain and felt like a dull thudding against my throbbing skull. The bathroom, I have come to believe, does not make a good place to sleep, excuse me, to pass out.

We were celebrating a 21st birthday, so everyone was paying attention to the birthday girl, making sure she was paced appropriately, providing her with ample glasses of refreshing water, and going easy on the shots. But we were all so busy watching her, everyone forgot to watch me, and by the end of the night I was being pulled off the bar (where I was trying to dance thank you very much) and told that it was time to head home. Once I was in the car, I knew I was in trouble. I could hear the rumbly in my tumbly, but I like to think of myself as a seasoned drinker who can hold her alcohol, so I swallowed hard, opened the window and tried to think non-pukey thoughts.

It didn't work. And to make a potentially long story short, I ended up yaking out my window as we drove home, so today my car wears the spray of my dinner along its side.

Once I got home, more puke followed (but I did manage to shower somewhere between boughts because I'd gotten a little barf in my hair as I puked out the car window at 60 miles an hour) and finally I just curled up on the floor and made camp. This morning every muscle was stiff and sore from lying on the hard floor and my neck and shoulders were tense from the rather forceful hurling (my eyeballs nearly pooped out of my head from the energy behind some of those barfs). Around noon today I managed to choke down half a McDonald's cheeseburger, but it's approaching midafternoon now and I can tell you I still don't feel right.

I don't think a run is in the forecast today.