Much of Nothing
(Note to reader: This story will take much writing. As of this point, only the bottom option will continue with the story. Also, I procrastinate often.)
The morning sun shining in through your bedroom window pulled you up from your slumber like a spear to your temple. Last nights drinking has taken it's toll, you think as your stomach shudders and churns.
You roll out of bed onto unsteady feet and make your way to the bathroom, your feet falling to heavy; blood pumping furiously to blast pain into your head. After stumbling through the bathroom door, you fall to your knees before the porceline pool and shoot vomit out your mouth and nose like an exploding faucet of disgust. You heave until your stomach muscles hurt; your throat raw, and your teeth caked with bits of the vomitous filth.
You rinse your mouth out, drinking at the water. It has always amazed you how appealing water can be right after a heavy session of regurgitation; the taste so sweet. But any other time you drink water it has a chemical smell; and too much of it upsets your stomach.
After brushing your teeth for a long while, trying not to gag on the fluoride within the cleanser, you start the shower and step in. The steam fogs before you mistily, and you stand for some time under the water.
You stumble back to bed and pass out, glad that your parents are at work. It is good that your mother doesn't know you were drinking last night and you would like to keep it that way. You graduated high school almost two weeks ago and have been celebrating ever since.
The phone rings, awakening you from your slumber. You pick it up.
"Hello?", you answer.
"Dude! Meet me at the park in the woods," Dudley says from the other end. "Mikey has some weed."
"I can't," You tell him. "I have a hang over."
"It'll help," he says, "It settles your stomach. They prescribe that shit to cancer patients who lose their appetite because of chemotherapy."
Dudley is a walking encyclopedia of stoner intellect. He knows everything about every drug there is; partly because he's done all of them, and partly because he's studied all of them. You know better than to doubt his word.
You let out a sigh and agree; "All right," You say, "I'll be there."
You hang up the phone clumsily and get dressed as quickly as you can safely manage.
The morning sun shining in through your bedroom window pulled you up from your slumber like a spear to your temple. Last nights drinking has taken it's toll, you think as your stomach shudders and churns.
You roll out of bed onto unsteady feet and make your way to the bathroom, your feet falling to heavy; blood pumping furiously to blast pain into your head. After stumbling through the bathroom door, you fall to your knees before the porceline pool and shoot vomit out your mouth and nose like an exploding faucet of disgust. You heave until your stomach muscles hurt; your throat raw, and your teeth caked with bits of the vomitous filth.
You rinse your mouth out, drinking at the water. It has always amazed you how appealing water can be right after a heavy session of regurgitation; the taste so sweet. But any other time you drink water it has a chemical smell; and too much of it upsets your stomach.
After brushing your teeth for a long while, trying not to gag on the fluoride within the cleanser, you start the shower and step in. The steam fogs before you mistily, and you stand for some time under the water.
You stumble back to bed and pass out, glad that your parents are at work. It is good that your mother doesn't know you were drinking last night and you would like to keep it that way. You graduated high school almost two weeks ago and have been celebrating ever since.
The phone rings, awakening you from your slumber. You pick it up.
"Hello?", you answer.
"Dude! Meet me at the park in the woods," Dudley says from the other end. "Mikey has some weed."
"I can't," You tell him. "I have a hang over."
"It'll help," he says, "It settles your stomach. They prescribe that shit to cancer patients who lose their appetite because of chemotherapy."
Dudley is a walking encyclopedia of stoner intellect. He knows everything about every drug there is; partly because he's done all of them, and partly because he's studied all of them. You know better than to doubt his word.
You let out a sigh and agree; "All right," You say, "I'll be there."
You hang up the phone clumsily and get dressed as quickly as you can safely manage.