Hangover horror stories

Boot Camp

My first public puking came fall semester of my freshman year.

I was 18, away from high school, from my folks, from Sarasota, having traded in our sweltering autumns for the sharp fall days of North Carolina. Going to college full-time went hand in hand with consuming large doses of C-grade beers like Schlitz and the Beast, which, in turn, went hand in hand with kicking bathroom stall doors off their hinges and getting well-acquainted with the newspapers lying on tile floors.

On the morning in question, though, I was nowhere near my dorm, not even close to a serviceable public restroom. Nope. I sat a few rows from the front in the largest class I ever took at Wake Forest: my 90-student intro bio class.

I had suffered through the pains of hangovers before, but never one like this. My stomach contracted and gurgled; my heart pounded like a kick drum; my mouth filled with saliva. The professor droned on about mitochondria and endoplasmic reticulum. The hands of the clock on the wall barely budged.

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I meekly raised my right arm and asked to be excused. The teacher glared at me, realized my state and assented to the request. I shoveled my books into my backpack and scurried up the stairs to the rear of the auditorium.

The motion didn't help my stomach, which started swirling even more. I tasted bile in my gums and sped up, trying to hurry without seeming suspicious.

I made it out the front doors of the low brick building with mere seconds to spare. And there, right to the side of the paved walkway, I puked. Vomited. Hurled. Blew chunks. Right in a pile of the golden-hued leaves that had drifted down and blanketed the campus in recent weeks. I threw up again, this time more weakly.

I took a nervous glance around. Amazingly, the coast was clear. I saw no students shuffling to and from class. No cars full of prospective freshmen crawled by, driven by horrified parents.

I stumbled home and slept it off. I can't recall the details of how I recovered or how long I was out of commission. I laughed about it at the time and endured my buddies' amusement at my agony. But when I think about the incident today, I find I can't muster a chuckle. I can only consider the waste, the stupidity, of so many similar mornings.

--CLB

Tequila Sunset

Tequila and I had a summer romance steamy enough for an airport bookstore novel. I was just 17 and had never before encountered her seductive taste.

'Twas love at first sip.

I took three shots that magical first night, each one better than the last. I can't tell you much of what happened, though legend has it I made out with a 30-year-old. If true, the feat probably stands as my greatest accomplishment to date.

The next night we doubled up and did six -- it was even better. The warmth, the dwindling inhibition, the newfound hilarity of walking ... she was the world's greatest elixir. I proclaimed my devotion, told my friends I would never drink anything else. They tried to caution me, but you can't stop young love.

We spent even more time together the third night, my friends bowing out at seven shots, me sitting alone with my muse for four more. We didn't need them -- we didn't need anybody -- our bond was that pure.

Maybe things moved too fast. Maybe I wasn't ready. Maybe I drank 11 shots of tequila. Who knows. Bottom line is I spent the next 48 hours (that's no exaggeration) huddled in the fetal position on the bathroom floor. Sweats. Coughing. Moaning, groaning promises to anyone who would listen that if they'd just make this stop I'd never drink again. I was paralyzed. Tequila had broken my heart.

Eventually, I got over my first love. By college, I could be in the same room with her again, even watch people drink her without having to duck out and collect myself. But I'll never be completely over my summer fling. To this day, when a shot approaches my lips, a Pavlovian response cuts in.

She's hurt you before, my brain says. Don't you remember?

And if I don't listen, my body does the work for me. Though she'll always be in my heart, tequila can never stay in my belly.

--ML

Bio-Diesel

With all I've imbibed over the course of my adult life, it's a strange, medical science-defying fact that I have never once been hung over.

But being the headache-free one isn't always a good thing.

My girlfriend had been reporting in Citrus County for a few months when she finally asked me to meet her colleagues at the local hotspot, Applebee's.

Driving there after a romantic, late-night screening of Rent, I suddenly noticed an orange light on the dashboard of Elena's Honda Civic.

"Hey, babe, what's that?"

"Oh, shit," she said. "We must be low on gas." Another two minutes of driving, and we pulled into a Texaco. That thunderclap you hear in the distance? That's the foreboding sound of idiocy drawing near.

"We can use this, right?" Elena was holding up a green-colored nozzle.

"Oh, that must be diesel."

"I can use it, right?"

I shrugged. "Go ahead."

Five minutes and $40 worth of diesel fuel later, we were back in the car, about two minutes from our intended destination. That's when the car started buckling.

"Joel?"

"Uh, yeah, babe?" My voice came out like a squeak. We were now literally sliding down the road, Elena's car quaking like a God-fearing believer.

"We're really, really stupid."

I suppose we lucked out in the sense that the car at least made it to Applebee's before heaving its last, dying breath. At the restaurant, Elena's already boozed-up friends were flabbergasted.

In what I'm guessing was an attempt to hide her embarrassment, Elena soon succumbed to a few Applebee's martinis, a pair of vodka shots and -- "Don't 'I think you've had enough' me, Joel! We just broke my car!" -- a raspberry Smirnoff Ice.

A friend chauffered us home.

AAA had agreed to meet us back at the Applebee's early the next morning so we could at least tow the damned thing, though they wouldn't pick us up at home. We called Tina's Taxi Service -- well, I called Tina's Taxi Service. Elena spent the better part of the morning hunting for Aleve.

The guy from AAA was impressed by Elena's very-fashion-forward dark glasses. "Looking good," he whistled, ignoring my presence. Elena burped back at him.

Joe told us he had a brother in town who could give the car a "look-see" if we were willing to wait an hour. We were.

As we waited for the mechanic, Elena surveyed the vacant Wendy's lot adjacent to his shop. "Joel, would you mind keeping an eye on things?" she asked. "I'm just gonna head over there behind the drive-through sign and retch for a while."

In the sun, I watched the car guys raise the vehicle 4 feet above ground, siphon out the diesel and rev the engine. It was impressive, macho. In the distance, I could hear the faint sick sounds of my girlfriend, siphoning out some bad fuel of her own.

Elena's always resented the fact that I can escape a night of intense boozing without the slightest headache the next day. But as we drove home, the car miraculously purged, I told her not to underestimate the nausea and searing pain of a diesel hangover.

They're the worst.

--JR

Sleeping In

Between the ages of 21 and 23, I was always hanging out at my friend Jim's apartment (name changed to protect the extremely guilty). Jim was the first of my friends to get a real job and a real place. After long nights of drinking, we would often end up back at his pad, chain-smoking cigarettes and pissing in a potted plant on the back porch. I do not recall the events of the evening prior to my worst hangover, except to say we had probably gone to Ybor City and arrived back at Jim's place late at night and barely coherent. I opened a foldout couch in the living room and attempted to sleep while intermittently vomiting into a bucket Jim had obtained in one of those brew-your-own-beer kits (see "DIY Booze," p. 25). I could hear Jim doing the same from behind his closed bedroom door.

The next morning, I was paralyzed. Even my eyelids didn't want to move. My tongue was a size too big -- and furry. I was familiar enough with hangovers to understand that my body was suffering the ravages of dehydration. What I needed was water; what I craved, however, was a Coke. I grabbed my legs and threw them off the sofa bed, my torso refusing to snap to attention. After about five minutes of dangling over the edge, I got to my feet, waves of dizziness nearly sending me crashing to the floor as I crossed the Atlantic-sized living room (actually about 5 feet). I located a cold soda in the fridge. After fighting with the pop-top for what seemed like an eternity, I opened the can, took a healthy swig and realized that my taste buds were also malfunctioning. The Coke was its usual fizzy self, but to my mouth it tasted stale and flat. I almost yakked right there in the kitchen.

Dejected, I slowly made my way to the back porch and lit a cig. I'd been staring into space for half an hour when Jim made his way onto the back porch, reeking of death. We didn't speak. A few minutes into the silence, I noticed he had something on his right shoulder. The shirt was a blue button-down number, and it was covered in a dry, off-white, chunky substance. "What happened to you? Did you fall in something last night, and I missed it?" I asked.

"No." he said, sheepishly. "I puked in bed a few times."

"But I never saw or heard you come out to clean up." I said, confused.

"Yeah, about that ..."

--JB

Lessons Learned From the Bathroom Floor

I look at my hangovers like Aesop's Fables: Give me a hangover and I'll learn a lesson. Take beer, for example. If I drink too much brew, I wake up looking like a bloated puffer fish and craving a Burger King Egg Croissanwich, a Diet Coke and then later Denny's or Perkins, or Waffle House for French fries coated in motor oil.

If I drink too much wine, I go to bed spinning ... then wake up spinning. I've come to realize lately that vino -- albeit a classy lady's drink -- is not my friend. Sure, at first it's great. The stuff makes me starry-eyed and -- bam! -- it suddenly takes a nauseating turn for the worse. And I, like Alice spiraling down the rabbit hole, want nothing more than to curl up in a corner, cradle my head and stop the world from going all Tilt-A-Whirl on me. I blame Hollywood for romanticizing wine and scoff at women who swill their glasses daintily. Wine is only sexy if you exhibit self-control, something I apparently lack.

Onto daiquiris and mudslides. If I drink those sugary sippers, I wake up refreshed and pleased with myself, like I've just treated my palate to a decadent and satisfying dessert. It's hard to abuse frozen drinks. They're just too ... uh, frozen.

Vodka and cranberry makes me cry. I wake up looking like Courtney Love, mascara in places mascara shouldn't be.

My friends tell me anything rum is cool. My friend Roger is forever singing the praise of a brand called Ronrico. At $9 a bottle, he says it's the only way to go. He got hooked in college; the stuff tastes like rubbing alcohol, but never gives him a hangover. Other friends swear by Captain Morgan. "Captain this" and "Captain that" and "Oh, I'm gonna name my first-born 'Captain.'"

Screw the Captain. Once after a night of mixing him with Coke, I woke up half-naked in the shower, cold water blasting my face in a sad, pitiful reminder of why I would've made a crappy pirate.

No booze should make you feel that way.

--HK

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