It was around 3 AM on Monday when I realized that something was severely fucked up. I woke up on my Dad's couch, feeling as though I had just been Pillsbury poked by Jason Voorhees, and if the pain itself wasn't bad enough, it was also cutting in on my precious, precious sleep.
Four sleepless hours later, I was on the road to work, my Dad graciously giving me a lift, when I performed my first Linda Blair impression into a plastic bag on the side of Highway 20. He then pulled over and I proceeded to unload the rest of last night's dinner (which was basically salad and rice, since the only thing on the menu was pork) onto the curb.
Now, there are some people who, when they (oh, how can I sugarcoat this...) purge themselves of certain unwanted contents, are discreet, polite, and dainty in their execution. I am none of these things. You better fucking believe that when I heaved, I sounded like a dying man in throws of goddamn agony.
But let's face it, I'm a drama queen anyway.
What happened next, I can only describe as me completely losing any remaining dignity I had: I proceeded to stumble around work, falling asleep and generally acting like me on a bad day or Lindsay Lohan on a good day. I was staggering around, moaning like Jacob Marley, and my Dad's suggestion in all of this: "Take the metro home!"
Now, I should probably tell you about Montreal's metro: the metro is what most people refer to as "a subway", but as we all know, Montreal has a tendency to dive up its own ass, so we call it something else. Said metro can only be described as what happens when you take the very worst aspects of humanity, cram them into a glorified metal can, then fire it off under the city at high speeds. It's generally considered a good day if someone doesn't jump in front of it.
And he expected me to ride on it in my sickened state. Obviously, I don't get my brains from my Dad.
Instead, I got a taxi, rode home and proceeded to spend the day floating in and out of consciousness, punctuating my fresh new hell by voiding the contents of my stomach into the toilet. Over the past two days, I've subsided on a steady diet of protein shakes and Powerade (their should-be slogan: "Drink me to forget that you are essentially a harbinger of disease!")
But hold onto your goddamn hats, because here comes the piece de resistance: I spent the night tossing and turning between fever nightmares of (and I swear to God, this is true) Tila fucking Tequila.
Apparently, Tila Tequila is like my own personal Freddy Kreuger or something, because I spent the entire night with my brain screaming at me through images of a whorish, poorly tattoed Myspace midget. On the plus side, I no longer fear death.
On the plus side, I feel LOADS better today than I did yesterday, although my body is still in something of a state of disrepair, and I still can't take off all my clothes without turning all the lights off in my apartment, but hey, at least I can keep solid food down.