Day 234

Confession: My hangover food is strawberries.

It all started when I was 18 or 19.  I was in a gay boy’s basement suite and coincidentally no one else was able to arrive for the gathering. My party host felt down, then he—or was it I—declared we’d make it a hell of a party anyway. We found ourselves giggling on a sofa in an empty room, drinking wine, which is a substance I put on the lowest scale.

But he had convinced me and after a few glasses we soon found ourselves lying on the floor side by side, drunk calling our mutual crush. And trying to cook a turkey, I think. I was having a lovely time. Pity I don’t remember it.

Because next thing I remember is using the toilet. I locked myself inside, peed, and once I was ready to fight my way to the door I realized a compass couldn’t help me, and my host had to take on the position of locksmith.

After my release I saw carpet, ceiling, host, hand. I don’t know when he asked if we should call my Mom, but I quickly agreed. Within seconds—in my state—I was being firefighter dragged down the pathway between a house and fence. They were talking to each other and someone (maybe me) asked what we drank. He said “40% Australian wine”.

I still believe I heard this incorrectly but I definitely sputtered a closed-eyed “fuck you” before a vehicle door slammed in my face. It was not that quick or aggressive, but we’re going off my memory.

I went from vehicle to the floor of my own washroom, hovering over a toilet. I had a facecloth drapped over the side, vomited, flushed, and never saw the facecloth again. Weird.

I woke up the next morning still drunk and all I could stomach were strawberries.

I never got black out drunk again, I still detest wine, and I still eat strawberries if I’m hungover (which I avoid).

Sound of the day: Queen – Don’t Stop Me Now https://youtu.be/2lRcQmbLnzc?si=aidmP-DmYzYKCMmo