One night, I drank and drank until we had polished off a Texas Mickey of Canadian Club. My girlfriend wanted me to stay over, but I knew that my parents would have a shit-fit if I did.
At 3:00am, I decided that I would walk home. There were a couple of glitches in that plan, though. For one, it was January and although it was a clear, still night, the temperature was around -35 C. That would normally be OK, but I had nothing except a t-shirt and a thin leather sports jacket. Regardless, I decided to walk home anyways rather than feel my parents' wrath in the morning.
It started out ok. There was no traffic on the highway, so I had a quiet walk. About halfway I noticed that I was starting to feel a little too cold. My hands were white, and my feet were freezing. I was committed now, though, so I kept going.
As time wore on I got colder and colder. I eventually realized that my life was in danger. I vowed that when the next car or snowmobile went by, I would flag them down, tell them I was about to freeze to death, and they'd give me a ride. Unfortunately I never saw a car or snowmobile. It was just my frozen, drunken ass and the road.
Finally, an hour and a half later, I arrived at my house. I was no longer shivering (not a good sign). I was barely able to open the door. I immediately stuck my frozen hands under some warm water, and the pain was unbelievable. I stumbled up to my bed and wrapped myself in blankets. I was beyond blankets, though. I laid there shaking uncontrollably for about half an hour until my body regained control of its temperature.
The next morning, not only did I have a huge hangover, but my hands were red, peeling and sore. There was no question that if I had been outside any longer, I surely would have died of hypothermia.
The moral of the story is: don't make critical decisions when you're hammered. You may just do something that will kill you.