Before I begin this tale, I want to tell you why I’m reliving one of the worst mornings of my entire life. This particular morning beats the time I fake slept my way out of an awkward “hey, wake up! I think I love you” conversation with a charming but completely not for me man who was curled up beside me. It beats the morning I woke up in Barcelona after consuming enough vodka to sedate a large herd of bison. It beats the morning I woke up and realized I had a final university exam in two hours for a class I had only gone to twice (once on the first day to pick up my readings and once to write the midterm). This particular morning is even worse than the day I heard Elisabeth Hasselbeck was going to become a regular on The View. The reason I write of this morning, the reason I’m peeling back the curtain I have so carefully pulled over this memory (in my feeble attempt to permanently erase it from my brain), is due to the fact Ben challenged people to write their worst hangover story. 

Here is mine.

It was fall, and I had just started my last year of university. I had recently been dumped (on my birthday might I add) and was going out regularly- the world needed to remember me. I had taken some friends out for dinner and dinner turned into ‘ a few drinks’ which turned into DANCE! PARTY! ALL! NIGHT! We weaved through crowds, going from one pub/bar/club to the next. We consumed beer and vodka and tequila without hope or agenda. We were never the girls who consumed drinks to get drunk. We drank because we were thirsty in the tiny clubs, crammed with people covered in sweat. And the thirstier we got, the more we drank- whatever drink rolled off the tongue first, perhaps a shot, perhaps a beer, perhaps a blue drink because isn’t a blue mouth HILARIOUS? 

And as the pubs shut down, we stumbled home, occasionally banging on the door of a favored establishment hoping they would let us in for one more dance. One more shot of something that my body didn’t need. My arms were sticky with all the drinks that had sloshed over my glass and landed on my arm. My shirt had a stain from a beer I spilled while laughing. My hair smelled like an ashtray and was stuck to my head- the result of many hours of closed eye, one fist in the air dancing. We ordered the necessary slice of pizza for the walk home and with linked arms discussed how thankful we were that we had no classes the next day.

Then I realized- I did have class the next day.

It wasn’t a class, but my art teacher had told us there was a seminar going on at the university and attendance was mandatory. She was going to be there at check in and sit in on the lectures to monitor who came. A large percentage of our grade was based on our attendance and more importantly, our participation. I groaned, took another bite of pizza and promptly threw up on the sidewalk.

The next thing I knew it was 8:45 am. The conference started at 9. I stumbled out of my jeans and changed my shirt. Everything hurt. My arms, my legs, my soul. My hair hurt too much to brush it, so I put on a hat. I brushed my teeth and willed myself not to cry.  I walked past the kitchen, smelled the fruit on the counter and forced myself not to vomit. My eyes were watering, my head was thumping, my stomach was doing the jig and I smelled like someone had poured a keg on me (there was a chance that could have happened, but my brain couldn’t remember…). I was both sweating and shivering, the cause of which just caused the stench of me to become even more apparent. I said a thousand prayers of apology to my liver.

I signed in to the conference, made small talk, told concerned classmates I had the flu. I sat down alone (I thought I could hide the clear smell of smoke and beer if I didn’t sit close to someone) and read over the days itinerary. The first three hour lecture? ABU GHRAIB. I spent the first three hours of my morning staring at images of torture and prisoner abuse in the Abu Ghraib prison in Iraq. I mean the candid photos, the ones they weren’t even running on television, the ones that caused even the toughest of my classmates to turn away from viewing. My instructor was in the lecture (there were only 20 of us total, making it impossible for me to sneak out undetected), and continually was prompting me to ask questions about what happened. Examples included “Looking at that picture, tell us, what do you think is running through the head of the solider?”  For the record, I have a weak stomach. I still haven’t seen all of “The Ring” because I just can’t handle it. So three hours of non-stop images of people getting tortured, wouldn’t be something I would sign up for on a good day. Let alone a bad one where every 2.4 seconds I was begging myself not to vomit up the liquid remnants of last night alcohol buffet.

After that, we broke for lunch. Of course, my professor asked me to eat with her. I spent 45 minutes staring at a tuna sandwich willing myself to swallow it. Or just not throw up swallowing what I had managed to eat. I sweated a lot. I tried not to move, lest she catch a draft of the alcoholic smell that had apparently seeped into my pores. After lunch, I spent the next 2 hours listening to audio tapes of children who had been sexually assaulted and how they used sand therapy to heal. Not only did we listen to the tapes, we were also read brief background reports on assaults these children went through so we could better understand how their sand therapy sessions worked.

After the the last session, I walked home and reminded myself that I had did this to myself. With every shot, every pint, every cocktail, I had encouraged this hangover.  I started to cry. 

And then I vowed never to drink again.

Of course, I went out the next week. University had magical healing powers when it came to hangovers and I’m convinced it temporarily erased the memory of the previous Saturday where I spent a day seeing images of torture and hearing stories of abuse all while fighting the worst hangover in the history of my entire existence.

Thank goodness university is over.

(Once again, this walk down mortifying lane is thanks to Ben. Don’t be a Jonze)