Freshers + 19th birthday = really bad combination.
As some of you may or may not know or care, I started uni this year. Yes, I am a dirty little fresher. Uni started off brilliantly, freshers week was a haze of partying, pulling and take-aways and I was getting along with my flatmates very well. My 19th birthday fell a couple of days into the second week, so we all decided that would be our next big piss-up after giving a bruised livers a well-deserved break. I had already been declared the Flat Lightweight,(a well-deserved title - I can get drunk three times over on a bottle of cheap vermouth) and so my flatmates had planned a little 'treat' for me.
October 1st rolled around and after cheap Tesco's birthday cake (we are students after all) we headed over to the super-cheap halls bar across the road. I had already made quick work of two vodka-lemonades and was the far side of tipsy by the time my flatmates cornered me and presented me with a tray of aftershock shots. Seven in total, one from each of them. That would have made short work of me by itself, but unfortunately two of my friends from my course had also decided to wish me happy birthday, in the shape of the vilest shitmix known to man and consisting of two shots each of:
Vodka
Gin
Black rum
Southern comfort
Aftershock
Tequila
Black absinthe
and some cider and lemonade to top it all off.

Pinned down in the corner, I was forced to down all of it to a rousing chorus of drinking chants. Afterwards, I ran to the toilets and shoved pretty much my entire hand down my throat, but thirteen years of not having puked had left me with no gag reflex and so the concoction remained stubbornly in my stomach. I could feel myself getting drunker by the second and stumbled out to sit on a wall outside the bar, head between my legs, still trying to vom while everyone in the bar gathered round to point and laugh. That was about half past nine. The last thing I remember is yanking off my boots and hurling them across the carpark screaming that I didn't want to puke on them.

~~~~Wavy lines~~~~~

Next thing I know, its half eight the next morning and I'm hanging out of my bed, head in a bin, still pretty drunk. Now what happened between the bar and my bed is a story that my flatmates love to remind me of whenever possible. Apparantly, beginning to feel slightly guilty at my condition, they enlisted the help of a third year rugby player to carry me back to bed. There, they stripped me, cleaned me off and put me to bed (bearing in mind they had only known me a week at this point) before sitting up with me all night and ensuring I didn't choke on my own vomit. Vomit, which (in order to stay more-or-less on topic) filled my bin twice over and was, as far as they could tell, pure alcohol. Vomit I produced in between screaming obscenities and that I hated them all. Vomit I was still producing at four in the morning, by which time my room full of guilty flatmates had dwindled to two diehard nurses.

After my (very first) hangover the next day has dissipated enough the next day that I could move without wanting to die, I cleaned out my bin, filled it full of pure bleach and left it in a dark corner in the kitchen for several weeks. As far as I'm aware, this is where it still resides, now empty. As although after several vigorous scrubbing and soaking sessions it is now probably clean enough to eat out of, I just really, really don't want it back in my room. I'll make do with chucking my rubbish in a bin bag, thanks.

Edit: Oh yeah, there were pictures and videos of said vomiting, but they were daft enough to take them on my phone, so they no longer exist.
(Applebite Uh! A cow!, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 16:43, Reply)