Martinis. I don't usually drink them unless I know what's in them, usually because the aftermath depends on the drink. Hangovers from beer, gin, scotch, even rum is fine, but when it comes to vodka, my life falls down on its feet.
I got up feeling perfectly ok. My head spun a little. I wasn't surprised to find myself in Hot Guy's apartment, (I wish I knew his name) I didn't care, as long as there was no one else with him....on his bed...like last time, except that was a different house. And of course, as long as he hadn’t ass-raped me in my sleep. The morning seemed ordinary, he made pancakes for himself, and nicely showed me that he either really did not like cooking, or wanted me out. I prefer the latter.
"OK. Thanks, I think I'll get some on my way home." I said, as I walked out the door. I didn't close it. I just stood at the door for a few seconds, wondering why the heck my body wouldn't move.
"Could you close the door or what?" Hot-Guy yelled from inside. My head began to throb. With every beat the throbbing grew, till it beat like a drum in my head. My muscles fell week, I felt cold as a shiver ran up my spine.
"What .... what was in that drink?" I asked slowly.
"How the hell would I know?" Hot-Guy was not a morning person.
"Tell me there was no vodka."
"Ya, there was. Why?"
"Fuck." I muttered, before my knees buckled. My body shook from exhaustion, and a cold sweat began to break out on my forehead. I had just gotten up, and I was already exhausted.
"Call a cab." I looked at Hot-Guy. He was giving me a look that said, 'no way'.
"Just call a fucking cab!" I was almost yelling.
"Stop being a freaking drama queen, and call one yourself." He hissed shoving a pancake down his throat, he was giving me this look as if he thought I was kidding or pulling of some prank on him.
"I CAN’T, DUMB SHIT!" I yelled. "CALL A MOTHER FUCKING CAB!" I yelled. Why the hell was Grumpy-Hot-Guy being such a bitch? "I need to get to the fucking hospital, please just get one." I had no energy left to yell. Grumpy-Hot-Guy looked slighly in between worried and uncertain.
Ya, now I remember when this first happened. I was eighteen, and Drew took me out drinking to celebrate me grabbing my first high paying job. We drank vodka martinis like fish, and the next day, I landed up in the hospital. Stayed there for the day. Apparently, not only is my constitution for liquor very week, but vodka mixed with other alcohols..... really is not a good combo for me. Apparently, it's like an allergy, and if I didn't get to a freaking hospital this was going to get a lot messier.
I felt the gag coming up my throat. Shit, this was not going to be pretty. I can’t stand puking up. That sickly sour taste erupted in my mouth; it was the taste of stale blood. I wish Grumpy-Hot-Guy had not argued and just gotten the damn cab, maybe then his freaking door would not have gotten painted an extremely putting off, and chunky shade of red.