I Would Rather Die Than Fly Hungover

Let me paint you a picture.

You fly somewhere for a 4-day drinking bender. Maybe it was July 4th in Nashville, maybe it was Vegas douchery for a Bachelor/Bachelorette party, maybe you went somewhere tropical to unwind and drink yourself stupid.

A kitchen with a sink and a toaster oven

It’s all fun (except maybe Vegas). Whether I’m drinking my way around a new city, or throwing way too many back on a beach, one thing is for sure; I would rather DIE than fly in a plane hungover.

Never does paranoia, stress, fear, high blood pressure, and depression converge so quickly than it does on a plane, hungover. You can hear the SLIGHTEST abnormal noise after takeoff and this is your reaction…

A kitchen with a sink and a toaster oven

You literally can’t breathe all of the sudden. You ask yourself why can’t I breathe? Is this a panic attack? No, calm down, it’s just a hangover. But then you start crying on the inside of your body because it’s been a week since you called your mom. All your mistakes and regrets come flooding back into your head like a tsunami. Your dog that died 8 years ago runs across your brain. In your head, there is no way you will make it home alive. The sweaty palms kick in. The anxiety builds. You start realizing there is no way to get fresh air and you start really freaking the fuck out. You are so fucked. Your heart starts pounding uncontrollably, the cold sweats kick in, you think you’re about to die.

The altitude starts running your hungover, dried up, weak as a kitten body through a battery of mental, physical, and emotional anguish. You promise to whatever you believe in that you will never drink again. You pound a ginger ale, but your heart is still jumping around like a pinball. You try to use the restroom, splash cold water on your face, but all you see is stars. You try to pee but all that comes out is sawdust. You’re so dehydrated you can’t even cry tears. Your body is a raisin. And your brain doesn’t like it. Your poor heart is racing to keep you alive, while your panic makes that thing chug along like it just drank 14 old recipe Four Lokos. Am I about to die from a hangover?

You finally pound two whiskeys and your body settles down. You hit clear air and you think, I might make it home. You do make it home, but not after being convinced you were certainly going to die a sad, hungover, death. A big hungover hunk of shit flying through the sky while having a panic attack is about as miserable as life gets. Be prepared.

Next time, it’s Pedialyte and Xanax.

A beer bottle on a dock


A beer bottle on a dock