I love to puke after drinking

I almost forgot the relief that comes with puking one’s innards out after some heavy drinking. The last time I really vomited was months ago, when I downed barrels of tequila (or was it rhum?) mixed with Vishnu knows what. Intoxication makes bartenders of anyone, and it makes any mixture, however odd, taste sublime. That was also the time when I, in drunken stupor, proposed to woo one of my high school friends while Alona was cleaning up puddles of vomit on the floor and Cez was on all fours, claiming that she’s washing clothes. This whole bacchanalian exercise was caught on video, which I haven’t seen yet. I don’t know who the hell has a copy of it. They’d just probably show it during my funeral or something and have a good laugh at how goofy I had been when I was still alive. Yes, make fun of me, you assholes!

This time, though, what made me puke the morning after was just some cheap beer at a tacky joint with a confused and overworked videoke machine. Don calls it Hell. But Hell does not sell five bottles of beer for just a hundred bucks. That’s more like Heaven’s thing, if you would ask me.

Beer has never made me puke before, especially not that kind, which tastes just a bit better than water. This tells a lot about the deterioration of my drinking prowess. I should start flexing my liver muscles again so it can load up as much alcohol as it used to and perhaps gear up for more discussions on philosophies and beliefs; sex and lust; betrayals and trysts—stuff that drinking sessions are so rife with. I got home at six the next morning, reeking of beer-soaked morning reveries. A few hours after, I was face to face with the toilet bowl, unloading my angst with steady bursts of mush and digestive juices. And then came relief.