My head hurts.

My stomach hurts.

My internal organs hurt.

And, now that I’ve typed those three lines, my stupid fingers hurt.

Ow.

But you know that friend you have from your young and fun days? That friend who blows into town from Los Angeles, then suggests you put on a clean shirt and go “O.U.T.”? That friend who likes to scream things like, “Oh, hailyeah, you’ll have another Rolling Rock, you big suburban wanker!” That friend?

She just left.

Of course, I should have known better. Should have slowed down a little. Should have realized that maybe it wasn’t a good idea for me to try to keep up with a woman who was recently given the nickname “Strawberry Shorty-cake” by Snoop Dogg. But, well, what can I say? Three and a half beers, a greasy pepperoni pizza and a giant pickle all seemed like a really good idea last night.

Surprisingly, not so much this morning. (But, come on, I’m sure I’m not the only mother who’s ever found herself at the elementary school assembly, slumped against the gymnasium wall, painfully holding her head and crankily asking why the screeching kids had to recite the Pledge of Allegiance so damn loudly.) (Am I?)

So I’m off to find a quiet place right now. Somewhere dark and soft and static where the gymnast in my stomach and the construction worker in my head can put up their feet, loosen their pants and just make the world stop rocking a little. And I’m not sure how long I’ll be there, but if you happen to come by, can you bring me a bottle of water? Because I’m pretty sure that’s all I’m going to be drinking for a while.

At least until Shorty-cake comes back into town.

Wendi Aarons