There has to be a morning after

The spike of a pickaxe awoke me from my drunken coma. That sharp pain starting at the base of my neck and running its course to the back of my eyes is the only thing that tells me I'm actually alive. The agony is so bad I’m having trouble thinking. Where am I? Why is it so dark? I can’t see and I can barely breathe. I think there’s something on my head. My arms are like noodles, but I manage to rip away my cranial bindings. It was the shirt I was wearing last night wrapped around my face like a mask. Interesting.

Other than the makeshift Halloween accessory, it seems that I’m completely naked. I rip off my blankets and try to stand (easier said than done) so I can make my way to a glass of water or an Aspirin or ANYTHING that will help get this base drum out of my skull. Apparently, I’m still wearing my socks and shoes. How did I get my pants off?

One wobbly motion later and I'm standing in what’s left of my room. Somehow I’ve managed to pull all the drawers out of my cabinets and knock all of my books and DVD’s off the shelves. My missing pants are now oddly deposited on top of my lamp and my trashcan is upside-down and blocking my door. It takes every ounce of dexterity I have to step over this mess and make my way to the bathroom. Right now I have two dire needs: I need to find a pill for my head trauma and I need to expel something from my body that would make a hazmat team shriek in horror. Not necessarily in that order…. Actually the painkillers can wait a sec.

Besides the fact that I’ve now made a smell that is making the bathroom wall paper peel (it should burst into flame any minute) I had little trouble finishing my two tasks. After I pop a handful of Advil, I set my new goal: to sleep off this malady for another day or two. As I work my way back to bed, I check my wall clock and it tells me some dirty lie about it being half-past noon. I can’t think about that. In fact, every thought I have seems to be exploding in my skull. My mind is buzzing. Or is it all in my mind? I think my lamp is also buzzing.

It’s my pants (the ones on the lamp) and they’re making a humming sound and it’s not stopping. It’s torture just trying to do simple things, so the complicated chore of removing my garments from my light source seems like running through a wall of barbed wire. I manage to free the displaced jeans and rummage through the pockets to find what I assume to be the cause of this annoyance. Jackpot! A guilty cell-phone.

How can it be doing this to me? How can a device I've become so dependant on betray me like this? I fumble with the suddenly excruciatingly complicated controls and manage to discern why this racket is emanating from this evolved walkie-talkie.

I have 6 new messages. Uh-oh.

This looks like a classic case of “drunk dialing.” For those unfamiliar with this team let me elaborate...

Hung over? Woke up alone? Left your phone on? Got a ton of messages? Well then you must have got the itchy button finger last night and reached out and touched someone with your whiskey coated paw. You said things you never meant to say, to people that didn’t want to hear it, at a time when the last thing they wanted was to talk to you. Best case scenario: a few laughs and a story to tell. Worst case scenario: restraining order. It all depends on who picked up.

Anyway, before I can repair any damage, I need to see what my friends and (oh please god no) family have had to say in response to my late night telecommunications. I close my eyes and play back the messages.

Message one:
Dude! You sound soooo hammered! Where did you go? We were looking for you. I have NO idea what you said on my voice mail. That’s fucking epic man. You said you were in the FBI or some shit. That is fucked up man... that's fucking funny.

Message two:
Robin, I’m retuning your call. You are really drunk buddy. I guess I’ll talk to you when you sober up, but let me just say that Karen and I are just fine and I would appreciate if you would stay out of my… OUR business and let us handle whatever problems we have alone? ALRIGHT? Talk to you later.

Message three:
Hi, Robbie…. it’s your mother… I am so worried about you sweetie. You left such a rambling message on the machine. Are you in trouble? You weren’t making much sense… were you drinking? You KNOW you drink too much and it makes me so sad. Call me as soon as you get this.

Message four:
Well now that I am fully awake I can finish the little “conversation” we started last night when you called at 3 in the morning. We broke up two months ago and I don’t care what you have to fucking say… it’s not happening. Lose my number… you sick fucking prick.

Message five:
Robin? I am SO happy you called me! After the last date we had and all that time that went by and like all the messages I left, I didn’t think you wanted to talk to me anymore or see me or anything. And when my friends said you were going out with like some other girl I was like almost really stressing…. But I guess that’s all in my silly head! Haha! You sounded a little tipsy but you were like SO nice to me last night and I totally can’t wait to like see you this week. Gimme a call tomorrow ok? Silly boy!

Message six:
¿Quiénes son usted? ¿Por qué usted está llamando aquí?

Well, if it wasn’t for the blinding pain, I might start to care about this mess. But I am already half-asleep again. I’m not worried. I’m sure this will all be here waiting for me when I wake up tonight. Fuck.