There’s nothing that says ‘I’m a loser’ more than vomiting BILE on the floor of your best friend’s 2-year-old daughters newly decorated adorable elephant themed bedroom floor.  It’s not really my fault, though.  They certainly do NOT make hangovers like they used to. After taking a redeye flight on which you find sleep impossible EVEN after ingesting a cocktail and a strong sleep sedative only to arrive at final destination with an hour of ‘get ready time’ for a surprise party full of epic day drinking into the night that is required for the next 24 hours would be enough to make anyone who refused to eat for eating takes up too much space needed for drinking, vomit bile.  Wouldn’t it?  At some point I arrived on the corner of Foolishness Street and Instability Lane and decided that drinking upwards of 17 Miller Lite’s and various brands of tequilla would be the proper concoction equivalent to a spectacular night of fun.  Only when I awoke on the floor clothed in my super cute Basta Surf bikini, room spinning like a questionably assembled rusty ride at the state fair, did I realize what I had done.  I needed water.  No, I needed intravenous fluids. Stat.  Because the water I drank did not make things better, it made me crawl at a rapid speed to the nearest toilet and violently heave the rest of the bile I did not previously decorate the floor with, into the toilet.  I proceeded to do this for the next 5 hours.  While doing so, I could hear the laughter coming from the Sunday Funday pool party that was obviously happening outside.  I could tell it was sunny and beautiful, but despite my efforts to ‘puke and rally’, I only managed the ‘crawl to toilet and puke, drink more water, crawl to bedroom floor and see bile, feel shame, crawl back to toilet, puke again’ routine.  As my best friend later recounted, “I walked in to check on you and you were sitting up, staring at your phone (I was trying to do the drunk text damage control assessment: too drunk to formulate sentences and text or call, awesome) and started laughing”.  She asked how I was and I could only manage a grunt.  She felt sorry for me but I knew it was to be only for a brief moment while I assessed if I could open my mouth long enough to tell her that I had tainted her innocent little girls floor without having to run to the toilet again.  I managed to tell her the news and she was exactly what one of my very best friends could be.  Understanding, forgiving, and helpful.  While she did not clean up the bile for me, she did bring me the proper supplies and sat with me while I cleaned it.  As we re-hashed the previous days activities, I did my best not to try to calculate the ACTUAL amount of alcoholic beverages I poured down my throat. Watching her drink a bloody mary, I couldn’t help but feel a little jealous.  Not because I didn’t have one, but because there was no possible way I could imagine ever drinking again.  Not. Ever.  Until about three minutes passed by (or thirty, time is confusing when you’re hungover as fuck) and a godsend angel in the form of an 8-year-old redhead from next door walked in with a bloody mary and the instruction to deliver it to my hands.  I stifled the gag reflex and sucked down a quarter of the glass and the delirium tremens quickly subsided.  I was back in business.