Dear Alcohol, Why You Gotta Do Me That Way?

At what point in my life did one shot of tequila turn into feeling like some dirty groper slipped me a roofie? Three drinks last night. Three drinks. Three drinks and I wake-up looking like Snookie after a bar fight and, well, just looking like Snookie in any shape or form is enough for you to send me a care package and a hug. 

College. Those were the days. The days when I could drink Popov Vodka mixed with Franzia boxed class and still have enough dignity to be one K-Fed away from a full-on Britney. I would wake up in a lawn chair, go on a jog to the dining hall, eat something that was probably meat but was supposed to be cereal and then do it all over again. My young liver deserved a box of chocolates and a bag of Funions. That's how I say thank you.

Present. These are the days God punishes me for all the white lies I told in my youth. Yes, Mom. I was the one who peed on the dining room floor because I could not make it to the bathroom in time...not the dog. What?!!! I was 4 and still learning bladder control. Gosh. The hangovers are just so bad. Absolutely awful. One drink or 15 drinks, it doesn't matter. It all leaves me with the same question and feeling the next morning: How the shit does that Betty Ford drop-out Lindsay do it??? Worst part is that I don't vomit. I love that word. It's like the adult version of puke. Probably how people know that I am not a minor...because I use adult words like vomit and vagina. Where was I? I got sidetracked. Oh yeah. I don't vomit, so all that alchy is just festering in my stomach with 5 microwaved quesadillas I somehow managed to eat.

Ugh, this computer screen is making me dizzy. I need cures. I wish the Golden Girls was on TV.