I have, for the first time ever, experienced the two-day hangover. It's heinous.

I'm talking, raging on a Friday night, crawling into my apartment Saturday morning, sleeping until 3PM and then trying to track down my peeps. I'm talking, eating for the first time in 24 hours at 5PM on Saturday, and then throwing up at the restaurant.

And I wasn't the only one folks. My friend D. was right there with me. And I can tell you the root of the problem: Scots. That's right. There's a reason for the expression, "Great Scots!" Think Mel Gibson in Braveheart. Don't fool with the Scots because they will beat you every time. There are super human drinkers! Their drinking genes are mutantations of the norm. They are bionic!

Damn those Scots! They beat me yet again. We think they may have drugged me. God knows how I got out that bar alive!

Anyway, then I met a new DLer on Sunday night, after suffering a hard loss of the Eagles, while still shaking the toxins from my systems. This guy is also apparently superhuman (is he Scottish??) because he had me out until 2-ish. People, he was drinking Stoli. On the rocks. No mixer. NO chaser. HE MUST HAVE HAD 13 OF THEM. Oh, Gingi was there. She got loaded too. I stuck to the beer, it was all I could do.

I am not well. I'm like the youngest kid on the block that can't keep up with the older kids who player harder. I'm just going to go back to play in the baby pool.

I can't hang anymore.

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