I'm still in bed. I don't know what the fuck happened to me last night. Macaroni Grill, Chicaboom Room then Blur. I can't remember the last time I puked after drinking. We woke up this morning at our friends, Mike and Renni's, in the guest bedroom. I felt really nauseous and tried to be still so it might pass. I pulled the comforter off to cool down. A wave washed over me bringing with it a slick neck and a sense of urgency one only experiences in a life or death situation. I got up immediately and dry heaved a little, with teh exception of 20cc or so of bile. After a couple minutes, with my forehead resting on the far side of the toilet seat, a zip line of spit connecting me to the bowl, I decided I could go back to bed. I chugged some liquid on the nightstand and went back to sleep. I woke up to Amy handing me some herpes blister puss flavored antinauseal syrup. I slept for a little while. I woke up again and had to again head to the bathroom. I puked up all the liquid I drank which was now cherry red from the antinausea swill. Mike comes in with the camera and starts snapping shots of me on all fours all teary-eyed and drooling again. I told him if he took another picture I would puke on the floor. He and I both know I'm that much of an asshole so he stopped. One thing I noticed this morning: why, if you dry heave a few times and nothing comes out, does your body tell you it's well again? Anyway. I feel fine now - 95% at least. We get on the road and I tell Amy that I'm slipping again. She says pull over. I'm not ready yet. All of a sudden I am very ready and there's a pod of like 15 spandex biker guys blocking my egress from the road. I jam around them and bust a right onto a side road. I pull over and, at 11am on a Saturday, drop to all fours on the side of the road in a decent neighborhood. I didn't care. I'm in last night's outfit on all fours dry heaving in the grass next to the truck. Amy's telling me I need to get up or we're going to get in trouble. I don't care. I would lay there naked. I didn't care. I spit up some more cherry herpes sauce and bile. I hear a bicycle. My pride is back. I think I'm going to be swarmed by Lance Armstrong dudes as I do the crawl of shame. These healthy fucks. Luckily it's just some random guy. I realized how close I was to the sidewalk hearing the clicking of his multiple speed bike. I was in that 3-4 foot swatch of grass between the sidewalk and the road. I heaved again. Just spit. A kid on a bike with a banana seat goes by. Amy tells me again that I'm going to get in trouble. I get up and get in the truck. She drives me to the house. I go to the bathroom, dry heave some more and realize that I'm going to shit myself if I risk any more stomach contractions. I sit down and piss out my ass. It's like an espresso machine. I'm going to puke again. I get back on my knees to puke without wiping my ass. I dry heave some more. Now I feel the cold tile and realize that that's where I want to be. I pushed the rug aside and laid on the floor. I did not wipe my ass. I got up, and squirted again, cleaned up and went back to bed. Then Amy rolls in and wakes me up with a Publix sub. She has called our friends and canceled our super duper pool party and bbq. I love her. She is my queen. My nubian princess. We have been in bed shopping for Lamborghinis and talking shit. The point is, I can't remember the last time I puked form drinking. Additionally, the last time I was sick enough to puke in public with reckless abandon I was 17 and it was nighttime. I don't even recall having that much to drink. Fuck me. I'm getting old.