Speakin' of Birthdays . . .

My birthday was a couple of weeks ago, August 31st. What'd I do? I went to work. My birthdays are mine alone. I don't want anybody making a fuss. I have my reasons and if I were to explain them, you'd wish I'd kept my mouth shut.

Suffice to say, when my friends become aware of my birthday, all hell breaks loose. I don't know who told them but I really regretted it the day after. Let me tell you the story:

My birthday was on a Wednesday. Somewhere between then and Friday, my friends remembered and I paid for it. I had just got home from work that night. It had been a long day and I didn't leave work until after 6:30pm. I picked up something lite to eat and I had planned just watching a bit of tv and begin reading Neal Stephensons' Quicksliver. It's a book I've had for a while and I'd been meaning to get to.

I never had a chance.

I had just opened the door when one of my friends showed up and said we were going to get some pizza and beer at the local Round Table. It's the only RT that makes their pizza right! It sounded good at the time. When we show up, there's one of my cousins and two other friends waiting. We have our pizza and beer have a good time. Someone mentions it was my birthday and everyone feigns surprise and say we gotta do something. I tell them I just want to relax and read my damn book and get up to go to the restroom. By the time I get back, it's been decided that we are going to The Penny Farthing, a british pub. It's a great place when you want to relax. I just didn't feel like relaxing the same way my buddies wanted to.

From that point on, things get a little blurry. I remember having a couple of beers first then a Kickin' Chikin', another beer, a couple of expensive tequila shots me stumbling to the restroom and everyone finally deciding we should leave. Everyone but me, I was waaaayyyy to buzzed/drunk to voice an opinion.

My cousin receives a call on his cell and informs everyone there is a party we were just invited to. I was conscious enough to realize what that would mean. I'd be fucked. I had hit the wall ages ago and if I went to that party, the wall would be bashed and broken through. No amount of water was gonna flush all that alcohol away.

I think I remember saying, "Let's GO!!!"

My cousin informed everyone it was my birthday once we hit the party and somebody said "Happy Birthday" and handed me two warm screwdrivers. I pounded them.

That's all I remember.

I asked what happened after that. I've heard that I'd had two beers a few more screwdrivers . . . and then the stories get a little crazier. Stuff I know I would never do (fighting, manhandling and disrespecting women . . .). If any of that had occured, I wouldn't have left that part without some bodily injury.

I remember getting home, and having to toss my cookies once. When I woke up around 7am, I found a couple of under-shirts that had been used to puke in. Those went in the garbage immediately. I was feeling ok then. After throwing the shirts out, I went back to my room. Oh . . . my . . .

My room smelled of alcohol. It smelled like somebody had just sprayed alcohol everywhere and it would never dry. It was horrible. That's when the joys of metabolic alkalosis began.

When it started, I was pukin' about every fifteen minutes. I tried holding my breath to balance my bodies' pH level. It wasn't helping. I was really screwed up. The every fifteen minute thing went on for a couple of hours. It then went to every half-hour. I would get some water down and feel ok for a bit but it would all come out in the first heave. I'd be dry-heaving after that. My stomach would lock up in a heave and nothing would come out. It . . . really . . . sucked.

At some point it finally got to an hour between chunking and then it stopped. I was in my recliner at 1pm, not moving. I didn't want to risk another onslaught. I stayed that way for a couple of hours, but I was beginning to feel really hungry. By around 3pm I got some chicken soup down. By later that evening, I was eating all kinds of food.

It usually takes me days, if not weeks, to get over something like that. That was the worst I've ever had a hangover. By Sunday, it was like I hadn't done anything all weekend. I even had a couple of beers. And I enjoyed them.

I never want to do that again.

GD