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Recently, I told my girlfriend what I thought to be an entertaining story of one of my worst hangovers of all time. Much to my surprise, she latched on to a detail of it that in her words, “makes me a crazy person.” Personally, I don’t think I did anything super weird, but sadly, the numbers are piling against me. She told all her friends about it during a brunch, and I went 0 for 12 on people agreeing with me. I told my friends about it at the bar in an attempt to even the sides a bit, and once again had a zero percent rate of agreement.
However, I’m not ready to give up. Maybe I’m too stubborn. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment. Maybe I just hate ever admitting my girlfriend is right. No matter the reason, I’ve come to the internet, the last place where open-mindedness reigns, to see what the verdict is. Let’s jump in.
It was the Monday after my first Lollapalooza. I had gone all three days. I snuck in and drank a water bottle of warm vodka every day. I made the executive decision to skip the long lines at the water fill stations and instead, just asked the bartenders to dunk my Camelback in the ice coolers and fill it with water. Water is water, you know? I didn’t have time to wait in line. Also, I was 23. I’m not sure which one of these factors was the main contributor, but when I woke up the Monday after the final day, I was sick as a fucking dog.
Nauseous. Feverish. My bones ached. It wasn’t just a hangover, I was sick, sick. I think it was the flu, but it retrospect, it might have been some disease I picked up from drinking nasty trough water all weekend. Regardless, I wanted something to eat. Being sick has never suppressed my appetite. As a kid I had a stomach flu that wouldn’t let me keep anything down, and instead of having to force me to eat, my parents had to force me to stop eating so I would stop throwing up. Which brings me to the point of this story.
I, an adult, decided that what I needed to feel better was some food. For some strange reason my body’s hunger cues had been suppressed for the past three days, and in my newfound sobriety, I remembered that food existed, and that it was good for me. Luckily, I lived roughly 150 yards from a Chipotle. Even more luckily, I lived in an age where Postmates exists, so I didn’t even have to walk those 150 yards, and instead got that shit delivered to my front door from a very amused delivery guy. Now, some of you are saying, well that’s not that weird. Sure, it’s incredibly lazy, but I’ve had the flu before. I get it.
We haven’t even gotten to the weird part. I know we’re 500 words in, but I’m a story teller, goddamn it. Let me weave you a tale. Anyway, the guy comes by. He gives me the burrito. I grunt at him and hand him a five dollar bill. I take the burrito upstairs and unwrap it. At this point, my body is in full starvation mode. The burrito’s aroma is caressing my nostrils, and if I had enough liquid in my body to salivate, I would have been drooling on myself.
Guys, I fucking smashed that burrito. I made sweet, sweet mouth-love to it. I ignored all the nausea and signals from my body to stop, and I fucking pounded it. It was arguably the best meal of my life. Then, 25 seconds after I wiped my mouth for the final time, I ran to the bathroom and threw it all up.
I cried. I’m not going to lie to you, I cried. Not just because I was sick and in pain. Not just because throwing up makes my eyes water. I mourned the loss of this great burrito. I felt grief over the brief, useless life it had lived. And most importantly, I cried because I was still fucking hungry. Which brings us to the part that allegedly makes me a psycho.
I ordered, got delivered, and ate the exact same burrito. For the second time.
And I don’t see why that’s weird. I wanted a burrito. The first one didn’t stick, so I got another one to replace it in my stomach. Sorry I’m a man who knows what he wants and achieves his goals, I guess? Apparently throwing something up makes other (lesser) people not able to eat that same thing for a while? How did any of you survive in college? I’ve thrown up and then resumed drinking more times in my life than I can count. I didn’t let my weak stomach stop me from having fun. And I won’t let it happen with food either.
I stand by my choice, and I ask you, my loyal readers, to stand with me too. Am I a psycho for eating a burrito identical to the one I had thrown up five minutes before? Or am I a hero? Your call.