“T’was the Night Before my Hangover” or “What the Fuck did I do Last Night?”
By G. Lawrence Schirmer
When the first thing you do after waking up is stick your head in a toilet and relieve yourself of an intense nausea, you know you did something right the previous evening. Your memory hasn’t properly surfaced all the humiliating and horrendous things you said and did yet, so there’s a moment — when you rest your butt on the bathroom floor and lean your head against the wall to your right — that you’re oblivious and numb to the inevitable pain that will start to seep into your consciousness one-by-one, prick-by-prick.
Before I was an incoherent cock-tease to a gay couple, I had gin. Just gin. Bombay Sapphire was the only gin they had at this party, I’m not complaining but it never made sense to me to pay more money for the lesser of Bombay’s two gins. I even put a little tonic water in my first one before I thought “What the hell am I doing to myself?” then I resumed with the stuff straight scrounging for some rocks that I would find from a champagne bucket to put into my glass. I’m not exactly sure how many of these things I had throughout the night, because I’m not a drink counter (I learned it stops being cool and just turns depressing after a certain point) but just know that it was a lot because I’m what some bartenders may call a varsity team drinker, and I got blitzed. The truth is I started with two extra dry Gibsons back at my house before I even departed, because I was planning on dancing at this disco party and there was no way I would’ve had the cajones to dance without being properly inebriated.
Previous to me getting too out of hand, I insulted my friend’s drink choice (a Rusty Nail) when he asked if I liked them, I said — like a dick — “I don’t like to dilute my scotch with syrup.” Then I just had to add that [Rusty Nails] are a “man’s drink” for men who can’t handle straight whiskey (I would later text him a dick-pic of my “jaundice” penis then call him a fag for liking it).
You’d think somewhere between the point when I was shoveling Brie and Gorgonzola with chutney and nuts from a cheese board into my mouth and lightly flirting with the hosts’ sixteen year-old daughter that I would say to myself “Dude. It might be time to slow down.” but nope (and as if my t-mustache didn’t already make me look enough like a creepy cho-mo slob).
It was my mother’s friend’s fiftieth birthday, the crowd was an eclectic range predominantly comprised of pre-seniors and post-teens; I was stuck in the middle. But that didn’t stop me from peer-pressuring my mom to take a hit from a stranger’s joint and being shoved away by a hippie girl that I was dancing with after trying to force myself on her (I guess I miss read the vibe she was giving me).
The last thing I remember, before my mom drove me home, was being invited by that hippie girl to go to a concert later in the month and do mushrooms with her, an invitation that I accepted of course. However, we never exchanged contact information, and if we did, I definitely didn’t retain it nor would I have been lucid enough to properly give her mine.
What I’ve learned about myself is that if I don’t kill a piece of my liver at least once a month then I kill a piece of my soul. But why? Why must I put myself through such humiliations? Because I’ve acquired over the years an appetite for debauchery. Because there are demons inside of me and if I don’t let them out they’ll start their work on me. A self-loathing that makes it necessary to self-destruct, sabotage, or damage, and I’ve got two choices: quickly disintegrate inside while I hermit away, or relieve myself of my tormentors and survive a bit longer; I prefer the long decay.
I have to put the toxins in to smoke the demons out.
G. Lawrence Schirmer is a freelance writer. You can follow him on Medium or contact him directly at email@example.com.