My Moment As Sherlock

Triumph

Every Saturday had the same routine: wake up, wait for it to be time to go out, go out, get shitfaced, go to McDonald's, have a really hard time falling asleep, and then puke my brains out.

I didn't know what part of this equation was actually the part that was making me puke my brains out. And I was having so much fun until 4:00 AM that I just kept continuing the same pattern. I felt that the mean, surly lady working the drive-through at McDonald's and I had a pretty mutual hatred going for one another, so there was no way I was going to sacrifice that. The drinking might have been part of the problem... but I had drank for so long and so much, that I could not figure out why all of a sudden, Rainier made me end my night so sourly. I was doing fine drinking before. I was able to definitely deduce that it was not the waiting around to start drinking that would eventually lead to my session with the toilet. (Mostly because I started drinking while I was waiting around for my friends to start drinking, but I still blew chunks at the end of the night). Ok, as much I hated to admit to myself or to my friends, I had a problem with McDonald's.

McDonald's had to be the culprit. I needed to back off the Ronald train but it was embarrassing! Who doesn't want to enjoy a balanced 1200 calorie meal after drinking a twelve-pack? I needed to admit to my friends that I couldn't enjoy our late night snack... or meal after going to our favorite bars. "Umm... yeah I'll have a $50 tab at the bar but I'm going to skip the burger guys. I'm trying to watch my weight/wallet..." I don't fucking think so.

I let this trend continue a few more rounds. I wasn't ready to give up my date with Ronald every Saturday night. Or Thursday night. I just had to be aware that if I had a date with Ronald, I was also planning on going down on the toilet. That was fun for a little bit, but it eventually got to the point where I just couldn't take it anymore. I had to forgo the McD's. It hurt a little bit at first, but then I talked myself into acknowledging that I could do without and I would be fine.

So on the day I knew I had to give up McDonald's, I wake up, wait for it to be time to go out, and go out. I tell them that under no circumstance am I allowed to eat McDonald's. I explain to them that it is not worth the lack of sleep and heart burn that I endure the next day and they were very understanding. It is no secret within our group of friends that I have the stomach of a 65 year old man, so they were not surprised when I gave up our fifth meal. I still had a blast going out. I continue my regular Saturday night trend of getting shitfaced and racking up a huge tab, and then it's time to leave. My good friend is driving and I remind everyone in the car the I am not, in any way shape or from, allowed to consume anything from the Golden Arches. We drive away from the bar and everyone else wants McDonald's, so we go. It takes us a few minutes to finally get up the microphone to tell the biatch working the window what we want. The driver politely orders on behalf of the car. I roll my window down. "I WANT A QUARTER POUNDER WITH CHEESE! AND A SODA. AND A DIP CONE." The damage was done. I, to this day, appreciate that the girls in the car all questioned my choice, but I was reluctant to listen. I wanted a quarter punder with cheese more than I wanted anything else ever in my entire life. No one was going to keep me away. "A what?" says the lady working the window. I list again what I need. She's annoyed. Like I care?! I have an angelic meal coming my way. Thank goodness.

The time comes to pick up our goods at the second window. It takes all the willpower I have to stop me from eating in the car. The driver drops my roommate and I off at our apartment and we go inside to eat our food. I admittedly had already inhaled the dip cone in the car; I needed to eat it quickly anyway. I take out my fries and quarter pounder and enjoy every bite! This was probably the best quarter pounder that I had ever had! Good thing I was going to be able to have it twice...

About halfway through my meal, I realize I made my frequent mistake. I decide I should just try to quit while I'm ahead and go to bed. With my drunken logic (or lack thereof), I also decide that I would keep the rest if my burger on my nightstand so that I could eat it for breakfast. Luckily I was able to fall asleep with only a little bit of stomach growling. I dream a little bit about my dip cone... and then... the inevitable happens. I wake up with a serious need to blow chunks. I run out of my room, across the hall, and bend over the toilet. FML. How had I gotten myself into this again?! I had given myself so many pep-talks about ditching this stuff and here I was. It was painful, violent, and at one point I am pretty sure life-threatening.

Ugh. After my time in the bathroom I was finally able to sleep like a baby. I slept so hard, there was nothing that could interrupt me. Sunday afternoon rolls around and I finally wake up. Shit. I was so much happier sleeping. I go into the bathroom as per my usual morning routine and I have something on my face. Wait, it's not just on my face, it smears down from the corner of my mouth to by ear, to neck, and when I feel the back of my neck, it's in my hair too. Whoa. I don't remember this at all. I was able to deduce with my Sherlock-like talents that I had thrown up in my sleep. Multiple times. All over myself. It's repulsive. I squirm at the thought with what I have done and get in the shower. I actually had to turn over in the shower so that I could get the chunk off the nape of my neck and out of the roots of my hair. I had reached a new low.

After several rounds of shampoo, I finally feel clean. I dry off and go back into my room. My sheets, pillows, and blankets are obviously covered in puke as well. But wait... is that breakfast on my nightstand? Score!

Why would anyone call this story a triumph? I, like most golf players, can be happy with new lows.