Every time I get sick because of liquor I feel like I’m sixteen all over again.

As it stands, I’m 25 and I fancy myself a drinker. I can hold my alcohol rather well, drink to excess and know my limits, and I’m very in tuned with my body. Hell, I’m Irish. It comes with the heritage.

But once or twice a year I have moments of drinking juvenescence.

Like two weeks ago. I was drunk, even by my standards. My rational consciousness was saying “pass out and preserve your body” but my alcohol-fueled mentality was telling me, “keep drinking and have a good time, hey… you deserve it!!”

When I was sixteen, the latter always prevailed.

Now that I’m 25 I should know better, right?

Wrongo.

I kept drinking my half Vodka/half Coke concoction of cirrhosis-inducing liquid until I got so dizzy I couldn’t stand. I excused myself and went outside for some fresh air thinking I would sober up a little. Nah, the alcohol Gods had something else in store for me. As soon I got back inside I ran to the bathroom with a throat full of projectile vomit inching it’s way up my esophagus. I made it to the john only to splatter alcohol and bile all over the toilet… and some of it actually hitting the water. Due to my excessive inebriation, I was unable to contain the pint or so of Vodka attempting to expel itself from my mouth AND open the toilet seat. A rookie move.

After I finished spewing forth my stomach’s finer linings, I had a moment of drunken clarity. I remembered a similar time when I was sixteen and drank so much Vodka I bazooka barfed all over my best friend, Josh Dunn’s, toilet. The only difference was it involved orange juice and my favorite charcoal-filtered generic Vodka by Safeway.

Reality kicked back in. At this moment, looking at my stomach debris swirling down the plumbing with a splash of TY-D-Bowl, I felt like I was sixteen all over again.

I guess some things never change.