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The Hamptons Weekend Part V: The Aftermath
(This is Part V in a five part series on my trip out to the Hamptons this past weekend.)

To the best of my recollection, this is the drink total for me from approximately 2pm to 4am last Saturday:
  • 1 mimosa as I got to the house.
  • 4 glasses of wine (roughly) at the wine tasting.
  • 1 beer by the pool.
  • 1 glass of champagne at the Spa.
  • 1 pre-dinner glass of red wine.
  • 2 vodka tonics with dinner.
  • 4 glasses of champagne at the club
  • 2 vodka tonics at the club.
Coming in at a svelte 160lbs, that amount of alcohol is like giving me a horse tranquilizer. Couple that with the several Red Bulls I drank, and the fact that I'm currently able to coherently speak without a constant string of drool hanging from my chin, and you've got a feat worthy of praise and award.

I went to bed a bit after 4 in the morning and woke up two hours later with a feeling that can only be described as hammers being hit against the back of my eyeballs. Still drunk and watching the incredibly large room I was staying in swirl around me in an infinite blur of white and brown, I tried to remember just what exactly transpired at the Axe Lounge a few hours earlier. This is what I can recall:
  • I remember Mo and me doing the "roll the dice" dance move.
  • I remember a retardedly substantial amount of champagne.
  • I remember Mo telling me without a look of jest on his face that he would ensure I got drunk.
  • I remember the pathetic high-five.
  • I remember something else, which I won't go into here. But it was a first for me. Amazingly, I'm quite sure it will also be my last.
  • I remember heading home from the club on the windy and wooded back roads of Southampton and us making a pit stop so someone could puke. It was during this time that I came to the realization that I had one in the chamber. I even went outside to beg Mo, who was nicely holding the vomiting girl's hair back, if it'd be cool if I dropped one off in the woods. (This request was turned down as he reminded me it wasn't woods, but someone's front yard. Also, we had no toilet paper.)
  • I remember, and this is dead serious, opening up my laptop before I went to bed and looking at the Wikipedia article for Marble Hill.
I attempted to fall back asleep, but it only came in short intervals. My stomach was turning. I was uncomfortable. I was simultaneously depressed and delighted. And each time I woke up from my fitful sleep, I had no single idea of where the fuck I was. I imagine this is what a goldfish goes through every three seconds of its life.

When they were handing out hangover symptoms, I must have shown up late. The people who stood in line diligently got things like "headache" and "sun avoidance." I got something else entirely. When I drink to excess, I never get the headache. I don't even puke. No, my body goes straight for the horrible.

I get the shits.

There, I said it. Are you happy with what you've made me do? Thankfully, I was in the master bedroom with an attached bathroom so large, I could fit my entire apartment into it and still have room for a Foosball table. So I made several trips to the bathroom, sitting on the loo with my head in my hand, just wanting the agony to be over. Praying to whatever god would hear me. Swearing I'd never drink again.

And just like that the symptoms were over. Hopping in the shower (which, get this, was stocked with Axe products ... who knew?) and getting dressed, I finally made my way downstairs to a refrigerator stocked full of Gatorade. Grabbing one, I sat at the kitchen table, attempted to clear my head, and thought - despite the pain, this truly was an amazing weekend.

The ride home was quiet. The jovial celebration on the party bus out to the Hamptons was replaced by quiet reflection. Some people slept. Others talked quietly or read books. I slapped on my earphones and watched a movie on my laptop. Once back in the city, we all exchanged business cards and contact info, and promised to stay in touch. I got back to my apartment and called my girlfriend. She told me to take a nap and she'd come over later. Saving Private Ryan was on TNT, and if it's any indication as to how exhausted I was, I fell asleep DURING the invasion of Normandy. Probably the loudest and most explosion and gunshot-filled action sequence in the history of cinema and I'm sawing logs on my bed. (I woke up as the credits were rolling).

So once again, thanks to everyone that made the weekend possible, especially Axe who take me on these excursions despite the almost constant ass I make of myself on them. Big shouts out to Amy for handling all the logistics, Jake for being the sense of reason and an all-around good guy, Smita for knowing just about every single person I've ever met in my life, and Mo for fulfilling his promise of getting me 12-sheets to the wind rip-roaring drunk.
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