In which I’m suffering today from the remnants of that most terrible and respected of hang-over symptoms.

I put in a day’s worth of overtime on Saturday. Afterward, I really wasn’t interested in going to the party I’d been invited to, but I figured that I’d really kick myself later if I didn’t go. It was the very first party I’ve ever officially been invited to in this town.

After a disco nap, I took a shower and dried my hair and went. (Note that I did not mention eating any dinner, because I didn’t.)

When I got to the party, there was a band rockin’ out in the living room and people all over the place. (And I knew a whole bunch of them. I’m a local! I recognize people!) Becca took me straight to the kitchen and poured me a double.

Before I’d finished it, I was singing. Did a short set with RB and Rocket and that cute accountant bass player. Got a fresh drink when I got off the bandstand.

Danced. Smoked (oops). Chattered. Had a good time. Drank another drink. (Note that we’re somewhere between 6 and 9 shots at this point.) Belatedly started eating bread. Pissed off some chick from the band. Apologized, because I hadn’t intended to and had no idea what had set her off. Showed some people my tramp patches, which required me to lift my skirt to my waist in back (which seemed like a perfectly good idea at the time). Had a great ol’ holler with some musicians. Abandoned the drink I’d been carrying around but not drinking and got a glass of water. Had a really intense conversation about nothing with a chick I met through Teh (now Ex-) BF. I threatened to crash in the guest room, but after more bread and another glass of water, I decided to drive home. It took another half hour to actually get into the car because I was having so much fun chatting with the last few stragglers at the party, who were all musicians.

I made it home and into bed.

Sunday I woke up on time with an aching body and a pounding head. I drank a glass of water. At ten, I got up and made myself a piece of toast and an egg and ate watching an episode of Doctor Who. Then I slept until four.

Today my back and neck are utterly screwed up from spending too much time in that damn old bed, and I still have that vaguely stressed feeling of embarrassment and unease. It’s not like I blacked out — I mean, I remember the entire evening and didn’t do anything wrong — but I feel like I stomped on a bunch of adorable baby puppies or something.

While it seems that the moral is ‘fun has a cost,’ I ain’t stupid: I know that only an idiot drinks a bunch of vodka on an empty stomach. Sheesh.