[quote]RSGZ wrote:
ephrem wrote:
…my 24th birthday, and a friend came over. We drank, smoked weed, ate magic mushrooms, popped some pills, took speed, went out, smoked and drank some more, took another E and it went downhill from there. Projectile vometing, extreme nausea until the early morning and half a bucket of bile made the depression i was in even worse…
Holy crap!
Go big or go home, I suppose. ;)[/quote]
…in this case, never again really was never again, lol
Worst hangover ever.
[quote]elano wrote:
Worst hangover ever.[/quote]
I died a little inside when I discovered that I opened a link to an Offspring video. I closed it, but I’m still a little scarred.
Forgot about this one. New Year’s Eve at home from school: 31 keystones and 30 minutes walking around with a party ball. The next day I was puking and felt like death, but one of my training partners kept calling me out. So instead of rest, I did heavy sets of shirted 3 boards while still drunk. Hit a PR.
[quote]artw wrote:
When I was twenty I played baseball at Chico State. The night before an 11:00 am intrasquad game, I drank a fifth of Bacardi 151 to my face. I was creating serious havoc everywhere I went that night and woke up at 6am passed out in a church parking lot in the bushes. I ran home in a frenzy, still shitfaced, showered, puked about ten times (I couldn’t even keep water in my stomach for more than a few minutes), took a couple bong rips, which was a bad idea, and I was on the verge of complete collapse (way past it actually).
I got to the field early so I could change and get on the field before my teammates started showing up to give me a hard time about the previous night. Turns out that one of the other pitchers hurt his shoulder in a freak accident at his house the night before. Since the game was just an intrasquad, all the pitchers were assigned an inning, starters got two innings, just to get a little work in. I was supposed to throw the 3rd and 4th, but the guy who hurt his arm was throwing the top of the 1st and 2nd, so the coach gave me his innings too. I passed out for about ten minutes in the middle of centerfield during team stretching drills.
I puked a few times in the bullpen, staggered out to the mound in a daze, and promptly walked the first three batters on twelve pitches that weren’t even close. I puked on the back of the mound (actually I just kind of dry-heaved and managed to spit up an ounce or two of stomach bile) and the pitching coach and catcher came out to see if I was alright. After mumbling something about the extreme heat (it was the middle of February) I insisted that I was okay, but they wanted me to throw a couple of warmup pitches, so I hurled the first warmup about halfway up the backstop as hard as I could and said I was ready to go (I threw about 92 mph back then).
The next hitter was watching all of this and knew I was a) hammered b) having trouble seeing the plate c) a flamethrower who currently had little clue as to where the ball was going that day and d) just kooky enough to be capable of anything at that point. He stood in the back of the batter’s box and watched the first two pitches sail under his chin, then for some reason he swang at a ball about ankle high and tapped into a double play (3-2-3) and I struck out the next batter on three pitches. I went three up, three down the next three innings, and only puked once more the whole time (outside of the dugout).
When my innings were through, I threw a big Copenhagen into my lip, lurched on down to the bullpen, passed out again until one of the other pitchers woke me up, and puked again. I had to run from foulpole to foulpole twenty times before the end of practice so I started in on that and started to get so dizzy and nauseous that I collapsed and fell over about 30 feet from the right field foul pole, while the intrasquad was still going on. The entire team saw and it stopped the game. It probably looked like I just tripped and fell, but when I didn’t move (I was perfectly fine with sleeping facedown in the dirt for the next couple of hours at that point) the trainer came running out. He asked if I was okay, then said I reeked of booze. I told him someone must have spilled some liquor on the warning track and smiled at him. When he said I didn’t look too good, I realized I wasn’t smiling but grimacing heavily, and I told him I hit my head during my fall. He took me to the trainer’s room where I caused a scene when they refused to hook me up to an IV with saline (they didn’t have one). I got my arm iced down and my neck muscles rubbed out, which I fell asleep during and didn’t wake up from for more than 30 minutes.
The next day at practice, my pitching coach asked me why I was all over the place for the first three batters I faced and I grinned at him, showing lots of teeth, and said I just needed to work a few kinks out that I didn’t quite get fixed in the bullpen.[/quote]
Normally I don’t read posts that are this long.
But this was fucking hysterical
[quote]artw wrote:
The last time I ever drank or did any drugs was the worst. I woke up in my car on my neighbor’s lawn at four am in my boxers with my shotgun in the back seat, an empty fifth of scotch in my lap and dried blood (mine) all over my nose and mouth. There was about two grams of coke smeared all over my mouth, chest, and lap. I didn’t remember anything, there was a spent shotgun shell in the passenger seat, and I was barely ambulatory. I managed to roll the car off the lawn and into my driveway so as not to alert the neighbors, stashed the shotgun in the backyard and then puked about as violently as I ever have in my life for the next several minutes. There was a lot of blood in my puke, which made me even more nauseous and dizzy.
I found a half gram of coke in my glove box, railed the whole thing up in one line, yakked it to my face in one pull, gagged, puked again after I used some old-ass whisky to wash the drip down, and then got so dizzy I fell over and hit my head on the kitchen counter and got knocked out. When I came to, I was slumped over against the refrigerator and my heart was going into severe palpitations. I thought I was going into cardiac arrest, but my body was so wasted from all the scotch and whisky and coke the night before that I couldn’t move.
I finally managed to crawl into the shower and passed out with the water on until my roommate woke up at seven. I had a quarter ounce of weed in my room and I crawled into bed with it and a pack of Swishers and smoked the whole thing in three fat-ass blunts in about four hours. I sprinkled some coke I had found on my dashboard into them and remained completely still, except to hit the blunt or light a cigarette for the next day and a half. I’ve been sober ever since.[/quote]
I wanna party with you, cowboy.
You’re one of the only dudes I’ve seen here that has stories that rival mine in utter depravity.
[quote]elano wrote:
Worst hangover ever.[/quote]
I’m pretty sure I posted that on page one. With lyrics.
My worst ever was after attending a rangers game with my girlfriend of the time. She sneaked a 750 mL bottle of everclear into the game which I managed to kill about half of after already having 8 or so beers. I woke up the next day with some serious tremors and puked non-stop from 10 am until 8 pm.
I couldn’t even keep water down for more than 2-3 minutes. So dehydrated and messed up that I couldn’t walk down the hall without someone holding me up. Last time I ever had everclear.
[quote]MaximusB wrote:
I have never had a hang over. I don’t know why, just lucky I guess. I did have a horrible experience with taking too much X in Vegas years ago. B-A-D.[/quote]
Woke up w/ a dude, huh? Happened to one of my buddies once, but nobody talks to him anymore because of it.
On a more serious note, I woke up in a homeless shelter once. Chin and palms scrapped up pretty bad. Only thing I remember is I was hauling ass running down the street for some reason, then dream bits and pieces of the cops driving me there, and then bits of pieces of running amok in this homeless shelter/rehab place.
I woke up there like what the fuck and thankfully wasn’t in any trouble, but it took a good month for the scraps to heal, then another 5 months to get over the shame of incident.
In hindsight, it didn’t teach me anything.
One of my friends has some good ones including, waking up on the front porch of his parents house naked, walking inside to have his mom standing there. He grabbed a pillow, covered himself, said “don’t ask”, then walked to hsi room. He was probably between 18-21 at the time.
I also found him sleeping in our other friend’s brother’s bed one morning, w/ shit all over the floor, moaning like a banshee.
The other good one was the night he punted a full bottle of some flavored vodka w/ it exploding into a million pieces. He spent the next morning in his girlfriend’s bathtub puking his guts out and couldn’t walk for 2 days after.
Our other buddy has a penchant for blacking out and pissing wherever he pleases. He was in our other bodies living room one morning, when a mom walks in and wakes him up. He flipped up the cover of her recliner, which had storage in it, and started pissing in it right in front of her. Needless to say, she freaked out.
my worst…
im an english teacher in korea, and it was a thursday a night. friday was test day, and then we had summer vacation. it was gonna be an easy day of monitoring tests. i had one 40 minute class at the start of the day, then nothing but tests. so, a group of us teachers decided we’d go out for a few drinks.
we ended up in some gay bar. im the only guy left at this point and the rest are female teachers. it was a pretty quiet night in there, but i spotted some girl at the bar. i was failry drunk and we got chatting. things were going well. last thing i remember was my coworkers saying they were going, and asking if i want to get a cab. i said no im staying, see you tomorrow etc.
next memories are just blurry; getting undressed in some strange house, waking up getting a blow job and needing to puke badly, running to the bathroom to puke, going back to the bedroom, somehow managing to have sex on and off through the night. i wake up with a stinking hangover. the worst thing is, i look at the clock and i have 40 minutes to get to work.
i ask the chick where the hell we are, cos i dont even remember getting to the house. she tells me, to my horror, that im a 45 minute cab ride from my school. FUCK. i jump up like a flash, whip my clothes on and bolt out the door in desperate search for a cab. luckily there are tons of cabs in the city and i find one right away.
so im sat in the cab, strinking of smoke and alcohol, looking and feeling like death, wearing a t-shirt and jeans, hoping to god the cab driver is fast, and wondering how im gonna explain the way i look to my boss. i had no time to go home, and theres no way i could be late cos i had a class to teach, and would be in big trouble.
so im sitting there in the cab, sweating my ass off cos its summer and alcohol is just pouring out of my pores. then, i notice this red stuff on my fingers. fucking blood. oh my god. i put my hand in my pocket hoping the driver didnt see. get to school like 3 minutes before class starts. splash my face in the bathroom, clean the stinking blood off my hands, grab my shit and do into class feeling completely ashamed and deathly.
i somehow manage not to puke, and get out of class, go to the bathroom to take a piss, and to my horror, my junk and my white boxers are completely covered in foul smelling blood. yeah, i had to go a whole day at work like that cos i had no time to go home. foul.
my boss wasnt really around that day, but i did pass her in the hall and she commented “Oh, you look nice today.” Unbelievable.
I’ve been so hungover the next day that all I could do was make it to the medicine cabinet…pop some paracetomol…but my body rejected the tablets, it even rejected the water…you know you have poisoned your system when your body won’t even take in the water it needs to heal itself.
Also, I was in Fiji with a rugby team, coaching them. They had a liquor ban…I was in the bar until god knows what hour. The next morning we had training. it was about 30degrees C and 90% humidity. I felt dizzy, went down on all fours, and projectile vomited four times in the middle of the field.
Another time I was playing baseball with a serious hangover. my stomach started to convulse, and I started retching uncontrollably. The worst thing was, it was accompanied by roaring. I was roaring like a lion, no shit. On the field next door was a girls’ softball game. Both games stopped for about two minutes as I roared and puked all over the field.
Went to Octoberfest a few years ago, don’t really know what happened after I started drinking, went through a shitload of pitchers, apparently I got into a fight, got kicked out of Octoberfest for being too drunk. Two hours later my friends found my outside - I had been detained and could not tell the people who worked there where I needed a cab to go because I was staying at a friends house.
Finally got home with my two friends, they stayed up drinking with some girls they met at Octoberfest, I went downstairs and vomited all over a lamp in the corner, made it to a couch, passed out. Woke up 2 hours later, vomitted for an hour in their bathroom passed out on floor. Friends woke me up at 10AM, I started downing water, still pretty wasted, about half an hour into the drive home, I started puking again. I decided I didn’t need to get out and just threw up in the back on my friends mercedes in a pillowcase.
Felt like absolute shit for like 2 days after, one included going to my cousins birthday part and listening to a bunch of 10 year olds make various loud noises. After I just stayed home cuddled in a blanket watching UFC and PRIDE FC DvD’s.
Last year I was living in Sydney. I was held up in some crumbling, cock-roach infested, half-way house ****-hole just outside of Chinatown.
I was saving some money for an extended road-trip I wanted to take up the east coast. I’d flew half-way round the world in an attempt to escape the rat-race, but at that moment a’ll I’d done was trade one drab urban existence for another.
A shitty week at a shitty job at was coming to a close. Delay in getting paid, unsecured hours for next week and a few aggravated words away from a fistfight with co-workers had left me riled, dejected and uncomfortable. I needed a blowout.
Now I’d cut myself pretty close to the bone as it was to save cash - cheap digs, rice and noodle diet and all but essential purchases. So when it came to getting ****ed up, you weren’t left with a whole lot of options.
Now, there’s this cheapo white wine that you can easily procure in Oz that has been ominously nick-named ‘goon’. It’s of the bag-in-the-box variety of wine and once the plastic bladder has been drained, the bag can be inflated to make an improvised pillow. The aboriginal word for sleep is ‘goon’ As such, it is the weapon of choice for the unfortunate souls who find themselves on the street. Providing both temporary mental allieviation and physical practicality. At two dollars a litre you can imagine the quality of this stuff. Fucking rank would be an understatement.
So Friday night I crack open a box. The usual drink to forget your troubles bollocks. The evenings procedingss were not particularly eventful in themselves. The usual broke, back-packer nonesense. Just me and the house mates sat around talking ****. Everyone’s conversation got a bit louder and more animated. A few plates and glasses get smashed accidentaly. No biggie. A conspicuous lack of females. Sh1t.
I get through at least a couple of boxes.
I don’t remeber retiring to my room or at what time.
I wake up at midday and I feel…okay. “That’s strange” I tell myself. Normally when drinking to excess I feel it the next day and I could remember my volume from the night before. I get up take a shower, put on some coffee sit on the couch and start to think about how to salvage the day, as I have seemed to have dodged a hangover.
Then it hits.
My head starts to feel heavy.
A vague numbness at first building to what feels like someone taking a fistful of shattered glass and mashing it violently against my temples.
The first flickers of suspicion that the day might be a write-off enthrall.
The shakes begin soon after. What the ****. I’ve never ****ing shook before. I lift my left hand and see it like trembling like a parkinson’s patient. I make a conscious effort to stop it, but can’t.
Suddenly a cold flush seems to rise up from nowhwre . Teeth start chattering audibly
The realisation that lying down might be a good idea comes to mind. I endeavour to make it back to my room.
The hallway spins as I stumble down the hall, bouncing off the walls.
I collaspe and curl up in the foetal position.
All of a sudden this maelstrom of contorted thoughts invades my cerebral lobe. Imagine every negative feeling felt and every jolt of self-doubt combined. Every dissapointment endured and every pain experienced, all coalesced into one. A feeling that can only be described as a viscious, anxiety ridden, wave of misery.
I bury my face in the pillow and try and facilitate previous hangover and depressive coping mechanisms:
Rrepeat self-mantra’s:
“It’ll all be over soon mate”
“It’ll pass”
“It wont last forever”
“Just thoughs, Just thoughts”
“Think positive, happy thoughts”
The tide does not abate.
Oh Fuck. Oh Fuck.
Ex-girlfriend. Parents arguing. “We wish to contact you regarding a payment…” Dad Yelling. Rejection. Past. Present. Future. 30 marks out of 100. Boss. Mum crying. “Unfortunatley due to popular demand, the position…”. Dead-end. Morning Traffic. Rain-sodden clothes. Signal failure.
Stop. Please. Oh God.
I fade in and out of tiredness. Pillow wrapped round my head, praying it stops, before I finally pass out.
Awake to darkness. Fumble blindly for phone on floor. 7:15pm. Laying in bed for another half-hour. My throat croaks and I writh with nausea. Despite feeling this way I am compelled by some unknown reason to get up. I need to feel something. Give myself some sort of stimulus to distract myself from how miserable I feel. Anything.
I hit the streets. Stepping out the door the greasy waft of the dozen or so restaurants and vendors in the area hit me and I double over supporting myself against the wall. However there is nothing to vomit. I steady myself and move along.
Walking along dimly-lit city back streets and buzzing intersections, speeding cars pass by. The lights of Anzac brige light up like a beacon as I make my towards it. I reach the foor of the bridge; taking in the cool, salty breeze.
A week earlier, jogging across the bridge as the sun was beginning to set in the afternoon. Very pleasant. Now in darkness the setting seems a tad more sombre. Looking out across from the top, lights canvassed across the city-scape burn annoymously. I felt alone. Peering over the side. The murkiness below. Height Indistinguishable in this darkness. Black sky and water below merged into one. It stares back. So. Do I do it? Step out into the void?
No.
Not today.
Took me about a week to feel right again. I never did drink that goon again. Never went on that road trip either.
My worst hangover is actually not preceded by a great evening, I’m sorry to say. About 6 years ago, when I was 18, there was a party being held in my street. Thing is, that street had mostly parents with kids and old people living in it, not really anyone my age. So it’s kind of weird that I got incredibly drunk to the point where I didn’t remember most of the evening.
Anyway, I woke up in my bed but lying in my own puke, with a headache worse than I ever had before or since. First thing I did was puke more. Followed by more puking for the rest of the day. I was sick for three days after that, and was only able to eat light stuff from the second day on. I probably had some alcohol poisoning or something.
Anyway, now I sort of see that event happening as a good thing. That experience was so bad that I have taken a lot of care avoiding it ever since. I drink, but I always stop well before being completely wasted, and I don’t cave in to peer-pressure to drink more anymore. I haven’t puked from alcohol since that time and I really like it that way 
[quote]CopingMechanism wrote:
Last year I was living in Sydney. I was held up in some crumbling, cock-roach infested, half-way house ****-hole just outside of Chinatown.
I was saving some money for an extended road-trip I wanted to take up the east coast. I’d flew half-way round the world in an attempt to escape the rat-race, but at that moment a’ll I’d done was trade one drab urban existence for another.
A shitty week at a shitty job at was coming to a close. Delay in getting paid, unsecured hours for next week and a few aggravated words away from a fistfight with co-workers had left me riled, dejected and uncomfortable. I needed a blowout.
Now I’d cut myself pretty close to the bone as it was to save cash - cheap digs, rice and noodle diet and all but essential purchases. So when it came to getting ****ed up, you weren’t left with a whole lot of options.
Now, there’s this cheapo white wine that you can easily procure in Oz that has been ominously nick-named ‘goon’. It’s of the bag-in-the-box variety of wine and once the plastic bladder has been drained, the bag can be inflated to make an improvised pillow. The aboriginal word for sleep is ‘goon’ As such, it is the weapon of choice for the unfortunate souls who find themselves on the street. Providing both temporary mental allieviation and physical practicality. At two dollars a litre you can imagine the quality of this stuff. Fucking rank would be an understatement.
So Friday night I crack open a box. The usual drink to forget your troubles bollocks. The evenings procedingss were not particularly eventful in themselves. The usual broke, back-packer nonesense. Just me and the house mates sat around talking ****. Everyone’s conversation got a bit louder and more animated. A few plates and glasses get smashed accidentaly. No biggie. A conspicuous lack of females. Sh1t.
I get through at least a couple of boxes.
I don’t remeber retiring to my room or at what time.
I wake up at midday and I feel…okay. “That’s strange” I tell myself. Normally when drinking to excess I feel it the next day and I could remember my volume from the night before. I get up take a shower, put on some coffee sit on the couch and start to think about how to salvage the day, as I have seemed to have dodged a hangover.
Then it hits.
My head starts to feel heavy.
A vague numbness at first building to what feels like someone taking a fistful of shattered glass and mashing it violently against my temples.
The first flickers of suspicion that the day might be a write-off enthrall.
The shakes begin soon after. What the ****. I’ve never ****ing shook before. I lift my left hand and see it like trembling like a parkinson’s patient. I make a conscious effort to stop it, but can’t.
Suddenly a cold flush seems to rise up from nowhwre . Teeth start chattering audibly
The realisation that lying down might be a good idea comes to mind. I endeavour to make it back to my room.
The hallway spins as I stumble down the hall, bouncing off the walls.
I collaspe and curl up in the foetal position.
All of a sudden this maelstrom of contorted thoughts invades my cerebral lobe. Imagine every negative feeling felt and every jolt of self-doubt combined. Every dissapointment endured and every pain experienced, all coalesced into one. A feeling that can only be described as a viscious, anxiety ridden, wave of misery.
I bury my face in the pillow and try and facilitate previous hangover and depressive coping mechanisms:
Rrepeat self-mantra’s:
“It’ll all be over soon mate”
“It’ll pass”
“It wont last forever”
“Just thoughs, Just thoughts”
“Think positive, happy thoughts”
The tide does not abate.
Oh Fuck. Oh Fuck.
Ex-girlfriend. Parents arguing. “We wish to contact you regarding a payment…” Dad Yelling. Rejection. Past. Present. Future. 30 marks out of 100. Boss. Mum crying. “Unfortunatley due to popular demand, the position…”. Dead-end. Morning Traffic. Rain-sodden clothes. Signal failure.
Stop. Please. Oh God.
I fade in and out of tiredness. Pillow wrapped round my head, praying it stops, before I finally pass out.
Awake to darkness. Fumble blindly for phone on floor. 7:15pm. Laying in bed for another half-hour. My throat croaks and I writh with nausea. Despite feeling this way I am compelled by some unknown reason to get up. I need to feel something. Give myself some sort of stimulus to distract myself from how miserable I feel. Anything.
I hit the streets. Stepping out the door the greasy waft of the dozen or so restaurants and vendors in the area hit me and I double over supporting myself against the wall. However there is nothing to vomit. I steady myself and move along.
Walking along dimly-lit city back streets and buzzing intersections, speeding cars pass by. The lights of Anzac brige light up like a beacon as I make my towards it. I reach the foor of the bridge; taking in the cool, salty breeze.
A week earlier, jogging across the bridge as the sun was beginning to set in the afternoon. Very pleasant. Now in darkness the setting seems a tad more sombre. Looking out across from the top, lights canvassed across the city-scape burn annoymously. I felt alone. Peering over the side. The murkiness below. Height Indistinguishable in this darkness. Black sky and water below merged into one. It stares back. So. Do I do it? Step out into the void?
No.
Not today.
Took me about a week to feel right again. I never did drink that goon again. Never went on that road trip either.
[/quote]
shit. nothing worse than the super depressing hangover.
i know the goon. horrid stuff. never knew the reason it was called goon until your post. funny thing is, im in korea now, and they sell the exact same shit in some cool little chill out bar i know. $4USD a bloody glass. think its like $12AUS a box over there, right? had to laugh.
It was the night after high school graduation. Pre-gamed with 2 friends and a handle of JD before the night’s festivities, then at the party I burned a few bowls and drank a lot of beer (probably, who knows). Drove home somehow, couldn’t see the road, acquiring a flat tire on the way. Had to work at 6 am the next day.
Woke up with my alarm blaring and my dad is shaking me to get me up. I didn’t recognize him (still wasted) so I took a swing at him. Bad idea. So he kicked my ass.
I finally get out the door 30 min late, and get a mile from my house when I realize my tire is flat. Call my dad for a ride. That was a quiet drive.
Get to work just in time to serve breakfast at the old folks’ home. Spooning out runny oatmeal and drippy scrambled eggs when you’re nauseous is fucking terrible. I passed out in the locker room for an hour after breakfast ended.
So I’m an hour late prepping for lunch, and a half hour late getting set up on the line to serve lunch. Spooning pureed green beans and meat loaf is equally nasty. I threw up for a half hour after lunch, then finally got to call my dad for a ride home. Awkwardness ensues.
I love this thread so I am bumping it. I’ll share mine later.