A Midsummer's Nightmare

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Hangovers are a bitch.

I’ve known this for years, since I was, like, fourteen and went to my first kegger, but the headache I woke up with the morning after graduation was the worst I’d ever experienced. And that says a lot. I mean, it was throbbing. I felt like someone had beaten me over the head with a freaking baseball bat. And God only knew, maybe someone had. I’d been so wasted that night I probably wouldn’t have cared. I may have even found it funny at the time. Everything was funny after a few shots of tequila.

I groaned and pulled the blanket over my face, shielding my eyes from the sunlight that filtered through the window over my head. Why did it have to be so goddamn bright?

“Don’t be dramatic. I’m not that ugly,” a deep, groggy voice murmured beside me.

Shit.

Suddenly, I felt nauseous for reasons that had nothing to do with the amount of alcohol in my system.

I clenched my eyes shut, trying to remember what the hell I’d done last night. I’d danced with some people, played Quarters for a while, taken a few shots… more than a few shots. But, hey, it was a graduation party. Getting smashed was pretty much a requirement. I forced myself to think past the alcohol buzz and the thudding bass of the stereo, trying to remember where I’d been when I finally passed out.

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