Tasting Tequila

My eyes open, and suddenly, I’m aware. That my body aches. It is almost sore. Only I didn’t work out yesterday. Did I?

What was yesterday? God, what day is it?

That’s when I realize my tongue burns. Burns worse than my limbs. Like acid. The noise around me only amplifies my throbbing head. Thinking is already enough work. Now I have to deal with this, too?

Why are people screaming? Why are they screaming in...French? People do not scream in French in Canada. Canadians are another level of nice. That’s not just a stereotype, either. Every Canadian I’ve met living here my entire life has satisfied that statement.

The world must be truly ending if Canadians begin shouting. Better at least witness it. The end of the world, I mean. I tumble about for a while and then reach for my phone on the nightstand. Which, apparently, does not exist anymore. I rub my eyes, squint to try and make it appear. Something catches my eye.

Bright orange walls surround twin beds. Across the room, there is a clear glass door leading to a balcony.

Okay. I’m okay. No, I’m not. Yes, I am.

No, I’m not.

Where am I?!

I scramble out of bed frantically and rush outside. A picture perfect bustling city greets me; complete with taxis and rambuctious pedestrians screeching at careless drivers. That's how I know I'm not in Canada. I have to find out where I am. And if I speak the language.

I spit, and the tequila laced drop of saliva plummets. Why do I drink if I hate the taste so much?

I hunt for my phone, which, to my surprise, is in prime condition (unlike me). Then, an unfortunate occurence: no wallet. So, basically, I'm gonna die. In the middle of nowhere, or who knows where, without a wallet, keys, a functional brain, or a guide. Oh, or any idea where I am. Great.

The world may not be ending, but mine certainly is.