When Rum Goes Bad

Don't be a Jonze!

Write you own worst hangover ever story and win a prize! No seriously, it's true. Check out the rules over at No Ordinary Rollercoaster and maybe you can be a winner, just for being a drunk loser. 

About a month and a half before my 21st birthday my sister got married. It was a lovely affair full of love and happiness. I, of course, was a pretty good drinker at that point, but wasn’t quite the pro that I am now.

Being almost 21 meant that I wasn’t really used to alcohol being easily handed over to me, and I took full advantage of the open bar and lack of necessary ID as the Maid of Honor. I enjoyed the complimentary Captain and Cokes all night long as I partied and danced with the rest of the bride’s maids. As last call came around I grabbed two more, just to get my fill, hell I was practically sober after all.

And then I was drunk.

Just like that.

The bridal party and family met at the hotel bar after the festivities and continued to drink. One more Captain and Coke and I began to feel a bit woozy on top of my obvious state of drunk. My young and naïve drunk self didn’t recognize the signs. I figured, no problem, just get out of this heavy dress, and all will be good. Back to partying like a rockstar at a wedding.

To my room, I stumble, already attempting to get undressed while still in the hallway. Like a sack of potatoes, I flop onto the bed (still too young and naïve, or maybe drunk, to be afraid of the nastiness which is the bedspread) and I start writhing around, trying to free myself from my dress. I get the zipper down, no luck. Too tight around the waist to get up over my boobs, or down over my hips, I am trapped in the dress. Working like a snake shedding its skin isn’t a successful plan either. Of course, doing any of this sober would have had me out of the dress in a moment.

Just as my foggy brain starts to recall the memory of my mother safety-pinning the ass bow to keep it from flopping over and becoming a hip bow, my stomach starts to churn a bit harder.

And I run for the bathroom.

With flailing legs that hardly work and a dress that is half on my body, I manage to make it to the toilet and lift the seat before my bowels wretch. Huddled against the porcelain, my body revolts from what had to have been at least 12 or more Captain and Cokes.

Focusing on nothing more than keeping my internal organs just that, internal I let go of the toilet seat and it immediately comes crashing back down. Rum infused blood poured from the bridge of my nose and dripped into the toilet.

I finally got out of that dress, but had no energy to put on pajamas. I had energy to do little more than hurl for the next few hours between fits of sleep. I learned my lesson about that toilet seat pretty quickly though. While I still had the ability to get up and get to the bathroom, I held that sucker up each time. Pretty soon I would do little more that puke in the garbage can next to the bed.

I somehow managed to get in a car and make it back to my parent’s house the next morning. How I did that without completely imploding I have no idea. Death had come for me. With a pounding headache, a cut nose, a hunger that refused to be squelched due to a complete lack of appetite and an entire gastric system that wanted to be expelled, I spent the entire day hiding from daylight (name that song) in my childhood room.

The hangover might have lasted at least 24 hours, but 8 years later I still can’t even smell a Captain and Coke without gagging.




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