At any rate, you're sixteen, seventeen, perhaps 20 years old, having the time of your life, wondering why your parents, the law, your teachers said you couldn't handle it. You suddenly have lost all of your inhibitions. It doesn't matter that your ability to articulate has pretty much abandoned you, that you stumble. Every thought that you have seems brilliant. You're beautiful and funny and everyone loves you.
Maybe it takes awhile, maybe you're one of the lucky ones and it doesn't happen to you. But probably not. Sadly, this is one of those things that you have to learn for yourself. You don't know any self-preservation techniques yet, though anyone watching you can tell what is going to happen, and how to minimize the pain. It's the weekend, you're young, you have no responsibilities. Maybe you're celebating the end of finals, or the first nice weekend of the year, or just fate has decided that tonight is your night. You start early, have a beer in your room with your friends. You go out, have a good time, switch from beer to something harder. Most likely tequila. It tastes terrible. You wonder how something so terrible can possibly be associated with the heaven that is the margarita. Someone starts creatively mixing it to try and get it to taste better. Jello. Kool-aide. Cranberry juice. Sprite. At any rate, you're hammered. If you're lucky, you end up puking your guts out, but sometimes that doesn't help. Someone helps you into bed. And you sleep a dreamless, not particularly restful sleep.
Morning hits and you wake up. It's early. Oh. My. God. At first you just lay there, trying to assess the damage. You're not quite sure why you're damaged. Your pillow isn't nearly soft enough. Unless you've woken up in an unfamiliar place, you don't try to piece the night before together yet. The pain won't let you. There's a dull thud in your head. A throbbing. Your stomach feels like crap. Your tongue grew at some point in the night. And you can't get away from the smell of booze. At some point you have to get out of bed. If you had your way, you'd stay there until the pain goes away. Unfortunately, you have to go to the bathroom. You have to either shit or puke your guts out. It's gross, though you do feel a little better once that's done. Not anywhere approaching good though. While you're up you decide to start drinking water and to take a shower. You need to try to scrub the smell of booze off of you. The shower won't work, but you have to try anyways.
This is where you start to assess what went wrong. You remember the beer, you remember talking to the hottie, you remember singing. Oh, God, there was singing. One of two things happens. Either you can't remember a key part of the evening, or you remember it all too clearly. Doesn't matter which, because both options are bad. You groan and weigh whether it's a good idea to call your friends for details or confirmation that it was/wasn't as bad as you think.
You dry off and crawl back to bed, taking about a gallon of water with you. You realize you haven't peed yet, though you've had more water than you've ever thought you could drink. Hopefully, you can sleep and when you wake up the second time, you can feel a little more human, though it will take a full 24 hours before you're fully functional again.
And then you make the vow, the vow that you fully intend on keeping for the rest of your life: I swear. I swear to everything that I hold dear. I swear I will never, ever drink that much again.