I. Am. Dying. Seriously. Who do I have to promise all of my worldly possessions to to no longer feel like my insides are attacking me? Why did I do this? How did I drink so much? Did I really yell at the guitar player to play John Mayer? Why did I do that shot? How much wine did we drink at the restaurant? Do I have anything left in me to throw up? Is my shirt on backwards? Where is my water? Where is the Excedrin? Do my bathroom tiles look like pigs? Am I too old to get this hungover? Will the nausea ever end? Did I wash my face before I passed out? Good grief. I need french fries. Stat.
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