vom.com

I’m hungover and I have no idea where I am. Shocker.

My head hurts worse than my bladder, but I desperately need to take care of the latter first. The cave I’ve made under the comforter is warm, but the ceiling fan looks like it’s about to come loose and fly away, and judging my sore throat, it’s been on full-speed all night. I consider crawling over the snoring shirtless guy next to me, but I’m afraid he’ll wake up and talk to me.

There's no way that I could open the can of lukewarm High Life on the nightstand right now, let alone be nice or refer to him by his name — which is probably Colby or Jacob or something. I peel the covers off of me and obnoxiously pile them onto homeboy before making my way through the pitch-black Latvian winter. 

I find the bathroom door and clumsily grope the wall for the light switch. I cower and wince at the light even though I knew it was coming and catch myself in the mirror. I’m not wearing anything but the look of disorientation. My disheveled hair and bloodshot eyes help me to resemble something out of Lord of the Rings.

I decide that Mordor Afterparty Chic isn’t a good look for me and I turn towards the toilet. And that’s when I see it. And as God as my witness, I’ve never seen anything like it before. Vomit. Everywhere. It's on the walls and the floor, stretching from the base of the tub to the sink, and covering every surface except the interior of the toilet bowl.

I am either:

A. Still sleeping. 

B. About to throw up, myself.
C. In a Lars von Trier movie.
D. About to stumble towards the vommity mess where I will piss before addressing this situation.

Answer: D for dumbass.

With everything slowly dissolving into focus, I feel the panic mounting inside of me. And although I’m almost positive that I would’ve remembered, I am faced with the big scary question: Did I do this? 

"Fuck that," I tell myself. We are not entertaining the possibility of this. So I jump to default and blame him. I wake him up and tell him that he puked everywhere and that it’s “really gross and scary.” He rolls over and the color drains out of my face. It’s the guy I’ve been dating for three weeks and his name isn't Colby. He pushes past me and into the bathroom where he closes the door behind him. He returns after what feels like ten minutes and flops back onto the bed without saying a word. And I spend the rest of the night dreaming about murder scenes.

I forgot to mention that this guy was a serious diabetic who required a MediPort in his stomach to deliver insulin. He tells me in the morning that the vomit was his reaction to the abnormal amount of Andygator coupled with the lack of medication in his system. I tell him not to sweat it and I go back to texting the real Colby. Because Colby is adult enough to manage his alcohol intake and Colby looks better in my gym shorts. 

And when Brittany Murphy and I go on our next date, I continuously point at his insulin port and ask him to pay attention to his beeper. Because I don’t want him to projectile vomit all me and my Mediterranean Hummus.

And because I’m an assbag.