beer, poo, problems
26 June 2007
Yesterday (Monday) was a bad day and today (Tuesday) is even worse, because Sunday…Sunday was a glorious day.
Like they always do, it started innocently enough. I stayed in on Saturday night to "write" (goal: 5000 words; actual word count: 100 words) and because I had a punishing Friday night filled with vodka red bulls and foosball, capping off a week in which I went out and drank every single night. On Sunday morning, rested and refreshed, I contacted my friends Jeremy and Meredith to see if they wanted to get brunch. I had a lot of errands to run and things to do on Sunday since Saturday was a lost day because of my crippling hangover, and figured a nice way to kick it off would be with a lovely brunch.
So Jeremy, Meredith and I – along with our friends Chris and Robyn – headed over to the Village to check out a little of the gay pride parade (wonderful parade, by the way) and have brunch at AOC. AOC is a lil’ French place with a garden and a team of French waiters who act alternatively charming and arrogant. Because there were five of us, we couldn’t sit in the garden, but that didn’t make the brunch any less lovely. We sat and talked and laughed among the gays and Europeans and had a grand old time, congratulating ourselves for being so cultured and worldly. As for the food, I had my standard - omelet with goat cheese, mushrooms and bacon – but it was Meredith who stole the show with her fancy-pants hot dog sandwich, a hot dog on a baguette with swiss cheese and bechamel sauce. I didn’t know what bechamel sauce was prior to eating this hot dog, but let’s just say that I want to get to know more of this bechamel sauce. A lot more.
As brunch was ending, the idea of getting a drink was brought up. It was a lovely, sunny day and in were in the good company of friends, so why not? Also, none of us had gone out the previous night and were hangover-free. We wanted to be able to sit in a garden and drink, so after some deliberation we decided to go to Lorely for a quick and enjoyable beer before parting ways.
Well.
Before all was said and done, our bar tab was $394. Yes, $394. On a Sunday. Between five people, two of them girls who weigh a combined 205 pounds. We sat in that garden for eight hours, from 3pm until 11pm. All of us blew off every responsibility we had (for example, Chris and Robyn, who are engaged, planned to spend the day registering; I had to help a friend move an air conditioner; Meredith had to write up a syllabus) and got blind, stinking, stammering and slobbering drunk.
It was awesome.
It’s all the fault of those damn liters of beer, which are the equivalent of about three normal beers. While the girls drank pints, Chris, Jeremy and I hit the liters pretty hard. And no one wins when you hit the liters pretty hard, including your bank account and your work productivity the next day.
After having at least five and possibly six liters of beer on Sunday, I spent my workday Monday a complete wreck. More than the standard hangover, I felt beaten; I was sore, my muscles were tired, my stomach was a mess.
It was the last of these symptoms that distressed me most. A few months ago, I thought I had a ulcer, a fear which I wrote about on this site. Over time, my symptoms went away, and I concerned myself with more pressing issues (i.e. exploring the various forms of the Jersey Stranger, which is basically masturbating in the shower with one arm around the shower curtain, but really so, so much more). All was forgotten.
It was after Friday night’s boozing session that on Saturday afternoon I sat on the toilet and learned that apparently I had been shot in the heinie-hole. I’ve heard that blood in the stool is a bad thing, but this was more of a stool in the blood situation. I was so alarmed that I started crying on the toilet, but then went back to the Jersey Stranger and things got better.
I didn’t poop on Sunday, since that would have taken time away from drinking liters of beer and running up an obscene bar tab. Monday, however, was a true pooping parade. And each time, it was the same: someone had obviously been sneaking into my office and shooting me in the butt with a BB gun. One of my near and dear personal mottos is "I usually stop [wiping] when there’s more red than brown," so I’m not unfamiliar dangerous poos. But these poos…they were downright frightening.
I went to bed last night with stomach pains and anxiety. I woke up three hours later with the same, only more intense. Though I did not poo during the night, I convinced myself that I was bleeding internally and slowly (or not so slowly) dying. I thought about all the things I haven’t done – traveled to Asia, been to a zoo, had sex with four women at once – and all the things I haven’t done but really wanted to do – masturbated in Asia, masturbated at a zoon, masturbated with four women at once – and got sad. It was not a good night.
I called in sick this morning and have spent the day wincing and walking gingerly around the apartment, terrified to poo for fear of seeing a kidney or chunk of my heart in the toilet bowl. I’ve spent most of the day, lying in bed or on the couch, clutching my stomach and saying "Oww." God, I am such a pussy.
But there is a happy ending to this story. Just moments ago, I made a good, uneventful poo. Though not my best, anything that didn’t look like a homicide occurred in the toilet is considered a major, major plus. Though I only went to medical school for one year, I can say with 100% certainly that this normal poo means I’m on the mend.
So for the next few days, I will force myself to take it easy. I’ll eat bland foods (cereal, rice) and binding foods (bananas, painkillers). I won’t drink and will possibly even exercise. These next few days, I’m going to the picture of health, as my body heals.
This weekend in Boston, however, is another story.
Like they always do, it started innocently enough. I stayed in on Saturday night to "write" (goal: 5000 words; actual word count: 100 words) and because I had a punishing Friday night filled with vodka red bulls and foosball, capping off a week in which I went out and drank every single night. On Sunday morning, rested and refreshed, I contacted my friends Jeremy and Meredith to see if they wanted to get brunch. I had a lot of errands to run and things to do on Sunday since Saturday was a lost day because of my crippling hangover, and figured a nice way to kick it off would be with a lovely brunch.
So Jeremy, Meredith and I – along with our friends Chris and Robyn – headed over to the Village to check out a little of the gay pride parade (wonderful parade, by the way) and have brunch at AOC. AOC is a lil’ French place with a garden and a team of French waiters who act alternatively charming and arrogant. Because there were five of us, we couldn’t sit in the garden, but that didn’t make the brunch any less lovely. We sat and talked and laughed among the gays and Europeans and had a grand old time, congratulating ourselves for being so cultured and worldly. As for the food, I had my standard - omelet with goat cheese, mushrooms and bacon – but it was Meredith who stole the show with her fancy-pants hot dog sandwich, a hot dog on a baguette with swiss cheese and bechamel sauce. I didn’t know what bechamel sauce was prior to eating this hot dog, but let’s just say that I want to get to know more of this bechamel sauce. A lot more.
As brunch was ending, the idea of getting a drink was brought up. It was a lovely, sunny day and in were in the good company of friends, so why not? Also, none of us had gone out the previous night and were hangover-free. We wanted to be able to sit in a garden and drink, so after some deliberation we decided to go to Lorely for a quick and enjoyable beer before parting ways.
Well.
Before all was said and done, our bar tab was $394. Yes, $394. On a Sunday. Between five people, two of them girls who weigh a combined 205 pounds. We sat in that garden for eight hours, from 3pm until 11pm. All of us blew off every responsibility we had (for example, Chris and Robyn, who are engaged, planned to spend the day registering; I had to help a friend move an air conditioner; Meredith had to write up a syllabus) and got blind, stinking, stammering and slobbering drunk.
It was awesome.
It’s all the fault of those damn liters of beer, which are the equivalent of about three normal beers. While the girls drank pints, Chris, Jeremy and I hit the liters pretty hard. And no one wins when you hit the liters pretty hard, including your bank account and your work productivity the next day.
After having at least five and possibly six liters of beer on Sunday, I spent my workday Monday a complete wreck. More than the standard hangover, I felt beaten; I was sore, my muscles were tired, my stomach was a mess.
It was the last of these symptoms that distressed me most. A few months ago, I thought I had a ulcer, a fear which I wrote about on this site. Over time, my symptoms went away, and I concerned myself with more pressing issues (i.e. exploring the various forms of the Jersey Stranger, which is basically masturbating in the shower with one arm around the shower curtain, but really so, so much more). All was forgotten.
It was after Friday night’s boozing session that on Saturday afternoon I sat on the toilet and learned that apparently I had been shot in the heinie-hole. I’ve heard that blood in the stool is a bad thing, but this was more of a stool in the blood situation. I was so alarmed that I started crying on the toilet, but then went back to the Jersey Stranger and things got better.
I didn’t poop on Sunday, since that would have taken time away from drinking liters of beer and running up an obscene bar tab. Monday, however, was a true pooping parade. And each time, it was the same: someone had obviously been sneaking into my office and shooting me in the butt with a BB gun. One of my near and dear personal mottos is "I usually stop [wiping] when there’s more red than brown," so I’m not unfamiliar dangerous poos. But these poos…they were downright frightening.
I went to bed last night with stomach pains and anxiety. I woke up three hours later with the same, only more intense. Though I did not poo during the night, I convinced myself that I was bleeding internally and slowly (or not so slowly) dying. I thought about all the things I haven’t done – traveled to Asia, been to a zoo, had sex with four women at once – and all the things I haven’t done but really wanted to do – masturbated in Asia, masturbated at a zoon, masturbated with four women at once – and got sad. It was not a good night.
I called in sick this morning and have spent the day wincing and walking gingerly around the apartment, terrified to poo for fear of seeing a kidney or chunk of my heart in the toilet bowl. I’ve spent most of the day, lying in bed or on the couch, clutching my stomach and saying "Oww." God, I am such a pussy.
But there is a happy ending to this story. Just moments ago, I made a good, uneventful poo. Though not my best, anything that didn’t look like a homicide occurred in the toilet is considered a major, major plus. Though I only went to medical school for one year, I can say with 100% certainly that this normal poo means I’m on the mend.
So for the next few days, I will force myself to take it easy. I’ll eat bland foods (cereal, rice) and binding foods (bananas, painkillers). I won’t drink and will possibly even exercise. These next few days, I’m going to the picture of health, as my body heals.
This weekend in Boston, however, is another story.
