What level hangover are you at today?
You wake up waiting for the inevitable wave of punishment to hit but it doesn’t come. No pain or feeling ill, but you have far too much energy considering you had two hours kip. Probably the Red Bull from the three jagerbombs you downed with your bezzy after a ‘shopping trip’ still knocking round in your system. You could murder a big mac and ten pints of ice water.
No pain, but something isn’t right. You look surprisingly well even though you slept in last night’s make up. You have the mental capacity of a velcro roller. The coffee you’re downing is only making the fact that you’re absolutely starving much worse – the cravings for beef monster much and Florida Sunny Delight are off the scale. There’s some definite havoc being wreaked upon your bowels and you’re trying your best to hold a hangover fart in cos your new fella hasn’t left yet.
Slight headache. Stomach feels like shit. The room isn’t at a complete stand still. You are definitely not productive so if your boss thinks he’s getting any work out of you today other than a bit of light River Island shopping then he can get to fuck. Anytime a girl walks by you gag because her perfume reminds you of the random tequila shots you did with your girlies at 1am after meeting for ONE wine after work to discuss what a gobshite your fellas are. Life would be better right now if you were in your bed with a foot long subway and a bag of Doritos watching old episodes of The Kardashians. You’ve had 4 cups of coffee, a gallon of water and 3 orange lucozades and you haven’t been for a wee once.
Life can go fuck itself. Your head is throbbing. You can’t even speak too quickly, or in fact at all, or else you might vom everywhere. Your boss is already fuming at you cos you turned up an hour late reeking of eau de vodka. You picked up whatever clothes were lying around, so not only are they creased but the chances of them matching are slim to none; right now you just couldn’t give a fuck anyway. You look like you’ve put your makeup on whilst vigorously twerking. You check your sent messages to find you text your ex 18 times in a row.
You have a second heartbeat in your head, which is actually annoying the person next to you on the bus. Vodka vapor is seeping out of every pore and making you dizzy – and you still have the sweats which you’re pretty sure are 40% proof. You still have toothpaste crust in the corners of your mouth from brushing your teeth in a vain attempt to wash away the fact you necked some wrongun from Runcorn with blonde spikey highlights in his hair. Your body has lost the ability to generate saliva, so your tongue is suffocating you. Death seems pretty good right now. You definitely don’t remember who you were with, where you where, what you drank and why there’s a stranger (from Runcorn) sleeping in your bed at your otherwise empty house.
You wake up and find you’re on the waltzers. No wait, you’re actually in bed it’s just been cleared for take-off and is flying round the room at 50mph. You turn over to find your fella giving you daggers and you realise it might be something to do with the fact you have vomit in your hair and probably resemble a Picasso painting. You crawl out of bed (still in last night’s dress) and head to hug the toilet who is now your only friend int he world. Work just isn’t an option. You’re wondering if continuing to exist is even an option anymore. You look over to find your cat is eating last night’s vomit and you don’t even have the energy to care. You ask your fella to call an ambulance but he just glares at you and says you deserve to suffer. The gobshite. You vow never to drink again and even the mention of drinking again causes an action reply of the rest of last night’s cheesy chips and mayo. So sly on your life.