Nicky The Good

I just can’t do “it” anymore, and if I’m being honest I don’t even know if I want to either. The “It” being, going hard as a muthafucka with the boys.

Last night I met up with my college buddies for the first time in about 6 months. We’ve all got kids, jobs, priorities, so these get-togethers are few and far between. I actually missed the last one because my wife got covid and I had to take care of the kiddos solo for 5 days. What us bros had planned that night was perfect. Go to a steak dinner and drink semi-expensive wine while telling the same stories from over the course of the last 20 years. It was perfect.

I missed it and was devastated.

Fast forward to last night and I went for it. I made a decision that I had to make up for what I missed out on last time. No holds barred, throw it back to college life. We ripped shots, had random drinks, didn’t care whose tab it was on, didn’t matter, just as long as we were together and enjoying the night.

I felt fine and was having a blast, but as the night wore on I got tired. Whatever, that’s fine, I was up since 4:30am being more productive than 99% of America. I ended up calling it a night and headed home at a decent time, and arrived at my home around 12AM. I felt, ‘okay’. In the City I made sure to pick up some pizza to go with the plans of shoveling to my face in my basement alone and laughing to myself about how the old man still got it.

I was so excited when I took this photo …

After 2 or 3 bites I just gave up. Couldn’t even enjoy some drunken pizza. I felt pathetic. How is it possible that I’m no longer able to pound pizza with alcohol running through my veins? Isn’t that the whole point? It’s called drunk pizza for a reason.

I decided to take a shower, felt fresh and hit the sack. I passed out after scrolling TikTok and watching Gen Z be indoctrinated by a bunch of people who will end up in padded rooms. Not an hour later I woke up. I was shivering, stomach was a mess and nauseous as fuck. I mean it was BAD. I tried to burp a bit to relieve what I was feeling, but when I did I’d taste nothing but garlic and cheese. It made it worse. Far worse.

I then went upstairs and just sat on the toilet and prayed. Dear Lord, please just let this pass. Let this feeling go away and never return. In that moment I would have paid like $2,000 to just not feel like this.

Then it happened …

I tried to burp again. As it began to make its way up my throat my body gave in. It gave up. Projectile vomit EVERYWHERE. It was red, fresh marinara sauce from only a few hours before. Garlic cloves, it was fucking BAD NEWS DUDE! My head pounding, my body in shock.

Finally I started making some noise which prompted my wife to ask “What’s going on?” … with no dignity I said “I threw up everywhere, it’s all over. I need to clean. It’s bad.”

I threw out all my clothes and then used old towels to soak up what was left of my loser-self in the form of throw up juice.

The only bright moment was that as soon as I threw up I felt instant relief. No aftershock. My misery had subsided, and only embarrassment of my own self reflection remained.

Folks, I just don’t have it anymore. I don’t want it anymore. I’m gonna be 39 and I like feeling good all the time. I look spectacular, you all know this, but that comes with hard work. Sacrifice. I don’t just wake up looking as good as I do pushing 40. It’s work.

Does this mean I’ll never drink again? Hell no. But the days of going HAM are gone. This was the tipping point. I can Never, Ever allow myself to feel like that again. Nothing on earth is worth that feeling. It’s the closest I’ll ever be to withdrawal since I don’t do drugs.

The moral of this story is know yourself and don’t betray yourself. Do what you want. Do not take the shot if you don’t want it. Drink the girly drink if you want to. Do what makes you feel good, then, now and after the bar.

I’m washed and that’s okay. I’m okay.