Note: I realize it's been a long time since I've written anything. I'd like to say it was because I was being a hard working, productive student of a well-respected university. But we all know its because I was too drunk and lazy, and I apologize for that. Anyways, enjoy.

Eric Wang
Yeah, That'll Happen #15
My First Hangover

It's been a long time since I've gotten a hangover. I've always thought of myself as a good drinker, mainly because, I like to think of myself as good at a lot of things. I'm not, but that's beside the point. Turns out, my ability to consume without remorse the next day stems from my genetic tendency to turn cherry red and pass out at inopportune moments, never actually reaching full blown inevitable hangover status. However, thanks to a team of Asian nerds at MIT, there is a cure. Simply popping a Pepcid AC an hour before you drink magically gives you the ability to process alcohol like it's your job. Works like gangbusters.

And what a wonder it is, being able to drink like an Irishman. Delusions of grandeur rushed to my head, and all of a sudden I'm reliving freshman year with the liver of a senior and the hollow leg of an amputee. I open my mouth at girls carrying water guns filled with cheap vodka. I invite people to pour more beer into my beer bong. Hell, I can now make it past 2 AM without passing out. I kept checking the mirror in disbelief; I'm not bright red, and I'm ready for another round. I haven't drank this much since my three week binge over the summer because they stopped showing episodes of that Paris Hilton reality show. It's glorious.

Until the morning after, that is. The age-old economic adage applies here: there's no such thing as drinking heavily and getting away with it the next day. It started off innocently enough, waking up in a puddle of what I hoped was beer, and not processed beer, trying to piece together the events of the previous evening. Then it hit me: the most god-awful son of a bitch of a hangover I've ever had. And this jackass brought his best friend, Mild Withdrawal Symptoms. Not to be a little bitch, but seriously, this thing was bad.

Maybe it was karma punishing me for making fun of the previous hangovers of others, or the effects of mixing medication and alcohol, or maybe it was just my time. It was strange; my brain should've been Bubble Yum by now, but this hangover, it hurt. It hurt just like it did the first time, the morning after speed chugging half a handle of paint thinner vodka.

And now some other things that just seem to happen to me, and only me.

Remember when you were a kid, and you thought it'd be funny to get a little bit of each soft drink at the fountain, and then make a big deal about how gross it tasted? Yeah, it's still funny when you're at a bar and making combinations of tequila, salsa, cream, and limes. All I know is, it's a good way to get really wasted and then throw up on a church.

This is my official fuck you to Facebook. Damn you for taking up so much of my time. I hate you for the ridiculous ease of stalking people. And most of all, damn you for cheapening my 10 year high school reunion, which I still can't believe is almost halfway here. That being said, I love Facebook. My favorite part is people adding me to their list obviously thinking I'm someone else, but I keep them anyways because they're hot and I'm desperate for online friends.

Have you ever tried looking for yourself on Facebook? There must be like, 18 guys named Eric Wang that I wanted to message and say, "Hey jackass, are you the one who took ericwang@gmail.com?"

I live in a house with seven other dudes. The Roommate Wars have gone too far. It started off innocently enough, by taking pictures of each other using the bathroom, then quickly escalated to interruptions when The O.C. is on. Seriously, we can hogtie each other and run around naked all we want, but Thursdays from 8 to 9 is absolutely off limits.

Is there an easier way to ruin your winter break than by checking your grades? Why waste a perfectly good vacation by freaking out about the classes you have to repeat?

A sticky credit card in my wallet is never good news. It either means, I bought too many combinations of tequila with curdled cream and salsa chaser, or there is gum in my wallet. And the fact that I felt the need to go buy liver regenerating pills suggests that I should probably never set foot in a bar again.

So my friend told his girlfriend of four years that he got her the most groundbreaking, earth-shattering gift for Christmas. Which would be awesome, had he actually gotten her anything. Instead, he's running around town trying to find something to live up to her expectations. I told him to get a wedding ring. I mean, at the very least, you'll never forget your anniversary. I think there's a good reason why women won't talk to me.

I finally got a new cell phone after two years. Consequentially, I have a confession to make. If anytime in the last two years I told you that I needed your number again because I got a new phone, I was lying. I didn't lose my phone, I didn't drop it in the toilet, I never threw it at the wall in a drunken rage. You were, in fact, deleted in a rousing round of Cell Phone Survivor. I'd say I'm sorry, but the category was probably "People I'll Never Get Ass From." Good thing you've got your number on Facebook, in case I think your status has changed.

Best of luck in 2005 everyone! Here's to hangovers to start the year off right!



To learn more about me, go to my Facebook page.
To send me email, click here.
To fund my next bar tour, click this nifty little button below!