DEADWARD THE DEVIANT: Stagger On

I was blind drunk. Embarrassingly, retardedly drunk.

Technically, I was a year older than I was two days before and, as a consequence, had been forcefully plied with deadly amounts of gin and champagne by my so-called friends; three grown men who should, frankly, have known better.

I awoke in a vortex of psychosis and hyperventilation with my undies around my knees; I think, in my stupor, I'd tried (and failed) to have a wank. I couldn’t have told you my own name, let alone my whereabouts.

"Oh God, I need to go home. I can't die here, I can't."

Wiping away the snot and dribble, I rolled heavily onto the floor and tried to find my clothes. I couldn't find my own fucking face.

“Christ, it's dark. I'm just gonna have to jet and explain the situation tomorrow when I come back for my things."

OK. Homeward bound. I reasoned that if I could just get to the nearest shop, I'd know where I was and how to get to my own bed.

So, on the cusp of delirium, I tried to stand and instantly recognised the (worryingly familiar) effects of alcohol-induced paraplegia. Oh no, now what? Of course: WWRBD (what would Rocky Balboa do)? Man up and stagger on, that's what. And when that inevitably fails, crawl...

Pulling myself along with my arms, my useless spaghetti legs dragging behind me, I wriggled my way to the door like a caterpillar, and out onto wet gravel.

EUGH! RAAARRR! BLUUURRRF!

I opened my eyes a short while later, sobbing and shaking violently with cold, the taste of stomach acid in my mouth and a reeking swamp of vomit beside me.

"Fuck this," I thought, "I'm staying here.” They'll surely understand, after all, you can‘t let a wreck-head into a party and expect anything else. And so I crawled back inside and onto a laundry pile in the corner of the room and fell into a twitching, fevered sleep.

That afternoon I woke up again and realised it was my own pile of laundry.

Shit.

- Deadward