:: We can't do this anymore ::
"I'm like a cannon - built for one shot." - Scott, during a discussion on the difficulty of having sex multiple times in a short period of time.
There was a time - a few years ago now - when getting drunk on both a Friday and a Saturday was not just an amazing, death-defying feat. In fact, it was quite normal. Pick up a case of beer on Friday after work, drink it at somebody's house, maybe go to Shark Club, drink some more. Pass out.
Wake up Saturday, hangover breakfast at Ricky's, then get ready for Saturday. Rinse. Repeat.
This is how it once was. It's not exactly like that anymore. Of course, even back in our halcyon days of alcohol abuse, there would often be one casualty from the night before - one person who went way too hard, and whose hangover was always a bit over the top, compared to the rest.
But this was a minor problem. Hey, sometimes people have to be sacrificed for the greater good, and since most of us survived any given night, we were all OK with it. Sure, you knew that sooner or later your turn would come, but that was seen as a cost of doing business.
But on Saturday night, well, I think Saturday night - Kyle's surprise birthday party - may well have been the tipping point.
There were no survivors.
We started drinking at 6 p.m., which should have perhaps been the first warning sign - it was a little early, and we continued on into the wee hours of the morning (except for Christene and I, we left at 12:30 because we're old). But upon waking up Sunday and surveying the battlefield, there was some pretty serious carnage:
I woke up at 6:30 to the sound of Christene puking. I woke up again about an hour later to this very same sound.
When I eventually crawled out of bed at 10, I felt as bad as I've felt in weeks. I still have the remnants of a headache, and it's Monday morning.
Kelsey and Scott slept the next day until 2:30 p.m., then Kels was up just long enough to yak twice, before heading back to bed at 3:30.
Was Sean hungover? His response on Facebook: "Oh God yes."
And then there was Chris, who arrived home at 5:30 a.m. sans Jenna (who obviously didn't want to stay up that late) and woke up three-and-half hours late for work with blood all over his face. Asked how he came to acquire such injuries, his response was this: "Well, that's the question. I don't have a clue."
And let's not forget our good friend Bobby, who didn't even drink Saturday night because doctor's orders prohibit him from doing anymore damage to his liver. Seriously.
And I haven't actually seen or heard from Ian, Jeremy or even the Birthday Boy himself. Maybe they didn't make it.
God save us all on New Year's Eve.
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