Twice the sleep paralysis the other night after downing shots of gin and tequila. Scary as hell, the former, though the latter, even if not normally associated with death, made me feel like momentarily dying, stomach churning almost at the brink of imploding, head thickening as if ready to explode, and some other qualms my mortality seems unable to handle.
It was fun sharing stories after rounds and rounds of alcohol, though. Something I’d choose over enduring shocking little nightmares—the drunk stories, I mean, not the drinking itself.
Karlo Pineda: Journals 