The next morning, the house is a post-party war zone. I can almost smell the stale beer and like it always does the morning after, it makes me a little bit nauseated. George brings some coffee into the living room and an arm reaches up -- it's Meredith, who has spent the night on the floor. Her meeting about that whole pesky heart thing is in an hour. Izzie gets home and breathes, "Holy mother of destruction." Meredith greets her, "You missed doctorpalooza. I should probably never speak to you again." Izzie starts to apologize, but Meredith is already over it, asking, "What would I be doing, anyway?" George answers, "Preparing for your career-altering meeting?" He laughs and still sounds drunk. Seriously, she should maybe think about at least getting in a shower before fighting for her job, I would think. Instead, she stays on the couch and moans that the heart wall should have never torn. Izzie picks up an open beer off the table and takes a swig -- I think I just threw up a little bit in my mouth at the thought. Post-party beer? Let me count the ways (that drinking it is one of the grossest things you could ever do): 1) Whose beer is it? 2) It's warm. 3) Whose beer is it? 4) While almost any time is good for beer, I make an exception from approximately 6 to 8 AM. 5) Seriously, there were hundreds of people there. You're a doctor. Gross. She's not thinking about all that, though, and instead listens to Meredith recount the patient's weight loss. Almost as an aside, she remarks, "100 pounds in a year. How's her muscle mass?" At that moment, a light goes on for Meredith. George asks the question we've all been wondering, if she knows whose beer that was. "I hoped it was yours," she says. He groans and leans over the couch as if to vomit. I'm with you, George.