My eyes snapped open at 2am on my bed in the Intercontinental Hotel in San Francisco. Someone had stacked not just rocks, but boulders on top of me. My stomach churned. My breath labored. My head swirled with the strength of a typhoon. I needed to vomit, but I could barely move, and the harder it was to move, the more panicky I became. Nothing could have prepared me for this.
And it was all Brian De Palma’s [1] fault.
Nine hours…