Faces look ugly when you're alone...[More story extending, been nearly a week]

First, I am writing this completely off of the top of my head, second my head is addled by various and sundry beverages (i.e. I'm a little bit drunk) when writing these, thusly, and also I guess thirdly as well, these are as rough a draft as could be. Suggestions of fixes and continuity errors are welcome. I'm just trying to get things written down, also if you're reading this and you know me in person let me know. I probably won't want to talk about any of the stories I write here as the amount of seriousness with which I approach topics is basically beyond my capability in person and the inability to rewrite leads to disappointment of anyone who thinks me a capable writer. As my rambling leads into the story, here's an extension of the previous story. We know join our "hero" at a greasy fast food joint after a night of heavy drinking.

I stumbled in heavily, leaning against the door to open it as my arms gave out. I walked up past the line of people ordering food and asked about their bathroom where it was and if I could use it. This at the moment seemed incredibly urgent. I felt that if I was going to spend anymore time standing I was going to have very little say in what came out of which part of my body and that I would like to limit my options and the damage.

I went into the stall and sat, it felt like acid, I thought, as I thought nearly every hangover, that I would die, this was it, going out like Elvis to be found by some teenager making minimum wage. After an eternity of pain and anguish I felt more than ready for something to fill the gaping ragged hole in my gut.

That's all I got right now. I may revise, but this might remain until November as the first thing people see. I'm too tired and frankly too sober to write much more at the moment.