“Nothing good ever happens after one in the morning when you're drunk,” he painfully reminded himself of the events he failed to remember. Ben tentatively held his leg out of the bed on the floor to make his proprioception stop spinning the room. To his surprise, it helped. The world seemed to slowly halt to its habitual standstill—by normal human perception anyway. Only his stomach seemed, much to his displeasure, to keep enjoying the rollercoaster ride.
With shaky legs, Ben gave standing up a shot. He had to wet his burning throat and splash some water on his hangover-ridden face. While his feet were barely carrying him, his intestine's gyroscope had not yet decided to follow the rest of the body's change from horizontal to approximately vertical position.
Ben staggered to the hallway, supporting himself on the wall and wagering what was the best route to the bathroom, should the urge to empty his stomach force him to take advantage of one of the three plant pots that conveniently stood on the way there. They might come in handy, he pondered. Slowly, he processed the compromise between climbing over those two alcohol corpses that lay in the hallway in strategically bad positions and the alternative consisting of stumbling around them without the support of a proper wall. This process cost him more time than he realized, bringing him close to erupting before even being able to reach the first pot. He reminded himself never to host a party at his place again—a resolution that had so far never been kept.
With a new surge of nausea, he remembered his last night's companion. In shock over the realization, he turned his head one iota too quickly, feeling the hammering of his every heartbeat pounding through his brain. Fuck, this hurt!—not only his brain; his eyes too. The stories were true: booze was the liquid version of Photoshop. What had he been thinking? The answer starts with bee but has little to do with the black-and-yellow striped insects—except the latter color, maybe?
While renewed surges of gastric fluids refluxed in his larynx dangerously close to his throat, Ben thought he'd have a faint memory of being frustrated over his roomie Becca rejecting him for the gazillionth time, drowning his bruised ego in the most abundant organic solvent, score the gullible, self-conscious friend of Becca's as a victim of his revenge plan—a bit of buttering up had been amply sufficient—and the... “Shit!” he cursed, the faint tremor of his skull sending new waves of thunderclap headache through his head. The dick pic!
Whatever had made him think this would be a good idea, he thought, disregarding the obvious answer to that question. Adding to his already rather unflattering act, he had a convincing presentiment telling him that the fact he had shot it while forcing a massive stream of piss through his semi into her favorite plant pot would not exactly facilitate the quest for a proper apology.