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love, I once again find relief in the same old, same old.
    The next morning, I whisper out loud, asking God to create some kind of head-removal device so I can function a little without the gnawing pain in my skull. I normally don’t have hangovers if I
just stick to one thing, usually rum, but yesterday started with Caesars and ended at nearly three in the morning with Jello shots. The time in between was filled with a wide assortment of shooters, fruity cocktails and beer. I think it was the beer that got me.
    Getting home is fuzzy. I try to remember anything past standing outside Shooter’s bar, shouting “BJ Brown is named for what she does best, baby. Step right up and try her out.” Poor BJ had to practically beat them off with a stick and that’s where I lost the timeline.
    I look around. No guy here. That’s good. Still in my clothes. Good, since that probably means I didn’t get sick on them on the way home. I have to call BJ and make sure she’s okay. And I need a bucket of water to drink. Everyone knows the cure for headaches is water.
    Sitting up in bed turns out to be a bad decision as I’m compelled by the sensation in the back of my throat to find something to get sick in. The bathroom is too far away, I know. This is happening. Now.
    There is nothing around. Nothing except the jeans lying on the floor next to my bed, and I grab them without thinking. With the legs balled up, it turns out to be a good container. In about five minutes my stomach feels better, my throat and mouth much worse. My jeans are a multicoloured, sour-smelling design. I run to the bathroom and lay them on the tile floor before I go out to the kitchen to get a garbage bag. No garbage bags.
    â€œShit,” I say out loud. I turn to open the garbage can in the kitchen, but seeing the banana peel and potato chip bag hanging out over the side, I remember that I’ve needed garbage bags for a while now. I open the cabinet under the sink and find a nice sturdy, large shopping bag. Thank God for the Newfoundland Liquor Corporation and their thick plastic bags.
    Back in the bathroom I fill the bag with jeans and yuck while trying not to look. This doesn’t work and some stuff I’d rather not see spills out.
    â€œShit. Shit. Shit.”
    I try to clean it up, also while not looking at it, and use almost a whole roll of toilet paper to do it. When I flush, the toilet starts to overflow with way too much toilet paper and puke. I sit on the floor and cry, at least until I hear the sound of water pouring onto the floor. Clogged toilets can be wept over; overflowing toilets must be dealt with. I grab the plunger, and in a few minutes, I’ve unclogged the drain and cleaned up the remaining mess with a bath towel, which joins my jeans in the liquor store bag. I have to get garbage bags. And a mop.
    I grab a shower after brushing my teeth for five minutes. Still tastes like crap inside there. I wipe enough steam away from the mirror to look at my face. My mom would tell me I look sick.
    I throw my towel in the hamper and go to my room to dry my hair.
    â€œYou’re still a pleasure to wake up with, babe.” A voice stops me in my tracks.
    I don’t have to look. I’d know it anywhere. Still, I need to know why and how he is here, even where he is in the house. But I’m also naked so I run to my room, saying “no” with every step.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” I yell, looking around for something clean to wear. Those were my last clean pair of jeans. I search in the laundry hamper and find a pair that looks reasonably clean.
    â€œYou don’t remember?” Jamie shouts.
    I grab a t-shirt that says I couldn’t repair your brakes so I made your horn louder from my drawer and try again to remember anything. Nothing comes. Picking up the telephone on my bedside table, I dial BJ’s number.
    â€œWhy is Jamie here?” I ask before she can finish her hello.