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The shuttle came and it was clear that everyone was hungover and decidedly embarrassed. All eyes averted. The previous evening’s naked pool party felt entirely different in the light of day. I was in hell. My head felt like it was imploding. The union of two close friends whom I had known since they met was about to take place and I was dying. The Jamaican sun beating down on us like a merciless drillmaster. I hung tough though. I had no other choice.

I started to feel semi-human around 10 p.m. Sadly, I couldn’t stomach any food and booze was out of the question. Yet somehow, I let my friends convince me to eat some space cake around 11 p.m. They said it would help me. I don’t like weed. It’s not a good high for me, but I’m a fool and ate a big piece anyway. I didn’t think it could hurt. Idiot. Forty-five minutes later I suddenly found it rather difficult to hold conversations with people. I was dumbfounded. Then it dawned on me: the fucking cake! God damn it. I had to get out of there. I left Sally on the dance floor and caught an early shuttle back. Unfortunately a nice couple with two kids sat in front of me and wanted to chat. It took all of my strength and concentration to converse normally with them. Back at the cabin I laid in bed, a lump of misery. I couldn’t sleep, and I just kept getting higher and higher. Pure torture. I swore off weed for good after that. And being deathly hungover for my friend’s weddings.

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