53141842

I'm sick. Sick as fucking... sick. Just plain fucking sick.

I remember being little, and being sick meant that I got special treatment. Everybody would make sure to whisper as not to disturb my pounding headache, and I had my meals delivered to my bed. The bed itself would of course be neatly made, and my room as sanitary as a hospital.

Fast forward a few decades, and now, when I get sick, I have to lie in the same disgusting room full of dirty clothes and empty beer cans. Anything I need to make me better must be retrieved by getting my ass out of bed, putting on clothes, and walking whatever distance it takes to retreive it.

And of course, sounds: Nobody ceases making those head-splitting noises anymore just because I'm sick. In fact, last night I was wishing that my roommate would have choked on his own vomit as he subjected me to heave after heave into the toilet on the other side of my bedroom wall (the one I stupidly put my bed next to.) He of course, was not sick by accident, but by his own doing after coming back from some stupid-ass drink till you puke party that I couldn't go to due to my current condition. His was the kind of sick that does not tiptoe quietly to the bathroom in the middle of the night, but rather stumbles oafishly and falls against everything that will make a sound loud enough to wake not only me, but possibly the neighbors as well.

He's a good roommate, and I'm glad he didn't choke on his own vomit (and not just because I'd be left with the mess, either.) However, the last two times I vomitted from drinking too much, I at least woke up naked next to a girl I did not know. Unless you're really trying to kill some inhibitions, I really don't see any reason for consuming that much alcohol.