New Report Suggests Hangovers Aren’t a Myth

You know that friend who claims they’ve never had a hangover? You know—the same guy who keeps on about his immunity to pain, his inability to be rejected by women, and how all is co-workers JUST LOVE HIM?

We all have friends that are chronic liars. And for a time, many thought I belonged to this group.

That’s because—up until quite recently—I’d never experienced a REAL hangover. I figured that dreary, light-headed sensation following me around for about fifteen minutes after waking from a night of drinking was this fabled “hangover” that scientists still can’t kill. That any of my friends who claimed to be having “The most vicious hangover of my life” just weren’t able to endure pain without bitching about it.

Then…I turned 20.

I went to school on an island that separated me and my childhood home by 6 hours. This included an hour-and-a-half ferry ride.

This particular year—as Thanksgiving weekend approached—I was scheduled to be home on Saturday morning.

So, naturally, I went to a house party the night before. It was a pretty great excuse to poison our livers: we wouldn’t see each other for three WHOLE nights. We had to make up for the time we were about to lose.

It’s called being proactive.

And don’t worry, my strategy for getting home was sound: I planned on sleeping through the entire 9am ferry ride. Traveling’s easy when you’re tired enough to sleep, right?

After a few Keith’s, followed by some Corona‘s, with a touch of Polar Ice here, and a healthy dose of fun-coloured liquids there…I woke up to my phone’s alarm.


7:15? Where am I? Why can I hear my heart? Where’d Jessica Alba go? What. Is. Love?

No room had ever looked as unfamiliar as mine did that morning. I tried to sit up.

Only now, years later, can I come to terms with the fact that my dorm wasn’t haunted. That I wasn’t hit in the forehead with a brass pole by the floor’s poltergeist.

My body had filed for adulthood that night. My application was processed and accepted that morning. 

mr bean

With a gallon of water, two gallons of green tea, my overnight gear—and maybe one remaining litre of bodily fluids—I boarded the 1 hour 30 minute bus ride to the ferry terminal.

Without a doubt, the worst part (of my life) was the ferry ride. Keep in mind this was a B.C. ferry. These bad boys have no place to lay down, are equipped with impressively uncomfortable “chairs” and consistently rock back and forth.

Just like a regular water vessel.

Sunglasses on, hoody drawn, mouth slacked, I couldn’t read, sit, stand or dry heave for too long without Miss Frizzle and her class learning about bad choices by shrinking down and testing miniature jack hammers on my cranium.

I never trusted that lady. You don’t make a school bus “magic” for a group of grade schoolers without visiting your local drug lord/pharmacist first.

(Insert witty and equally thought-provoking sign off here)

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