To this day it is still eye-wateringly shocking how completely wrecked i feel when I've gotten drunk the night before. I feel like someone has stretched my skin over a drum kit and is trying to play a techno track with spanners and a wet dog.
Nothing feels this bad, nothing. I am covered in a fine film of condensation, I have the shakes, I can't seem to put my spine into any shape other than a question mark and my teeth have been replaced with uneven squares of velour.
Unlike everyone else on this planet, I'm also cursed with the ability to remember everything about the night before. Others get to blackout and be blissfully oblivious to every single obnoxious and inappropriate thing they did, while I have to grapple with a perfect memory of the various and colourful examples of why nobody should ever be my friend.
Loud unholy glass-shattering screeches, inappropriate (and uninvited) divulging of very personal information, sharing of gossip and secrets that frankly I'm not entirely sure I haven't fabricated on the spot for the lols, brutally honest opinions better given over a long table opposite a therapist, and boring rants about the state of public transport in London. Urghhh. It's mortifying enough to remember with terrible clarity how hateful I can be, but to remember how boring as well?
I just want to DIE. Please, someone take pity, bullet, brain, stat. At the minimum throw some mash and gravy my way. Hopefully I'll choke to death.
After I send off my seven-part apology thesis to absolutely everyone who was at the pub last night, and possibly those who weren't, I am going to see if I can give myself type-2 diabetes by necking the highest GI foods I can get my clammy hands on. I might get a double whopper with cheese and replace the buns with Crispy Cremes.
Which brings me to my next point; how to survive the rest of the day. I am under no illusion that I will not be able to carry out any kind of blagging, I am too hungover to even pretend to pretend to work. Nobody will be fooled. People will just shake their head at me and say, pathetic, why are you insulting us with your feeble attempts to suggest that you have a modicum of give-a-fuck today, stop it, immediately. We can see straight through you. Seriously. Your skin is actually translucent you're so dehydrated, we can see all your veins and flesh and blood vessels and lies.
I should probably face this with some dignity if I can. Try to fall with grace. If I am upfront and honest maybe I can be forgiven and allowed to wallow in my hangover, I'm aiming for a 'there's nothing we can do to her that she's not done to herself' sort of vibe. I fess up. Nobody has mercy, instead they retaliate by booking me into back to back meetings from 4:30.
At lunch my colleague takes pity on me and takes me to the burrito place, possibly the only thing that can break down the lipids of shame and regret inside my soul. On the way back I bite into my burrito and as sour cream and re fried beans squirt out and into my ears and hair, we run into my ex boss, who did not like me and actually made my leaving card herself, with the word 'Finally' in bold and font 72 letters embossed on the front. Seeing that I am defenceless, my colleague proceeds to introduce himself as my carer. I fake-smile through the indignation and guacamole and carry on, there's absolutely nothing worse that can happen today.
Back at my desk and the cool laminate is irresistible, so I rest my face upon it. The last thing I see is my computer clock ticking over to 3pm. Some time later, I hear the sound of Styrofoam squeaking and I pry open my eyes to find white is all around me, like a blizzard. I shoot upright and the violence of the motion topples hundreds of light white angles and squares - the tower of packaging that's been carefully built on me while I was sleeping falls to the carpet like a derelict building being felled.
after cleaning it all up (while crying), 4:30 finally comes around and I go to the meetings. When I say go, I mean drag my carcass along the carpet slowly, using nothing but my eyebrows. Nobody is there, it was a practical joke. Thank Fuck.
To end this pointless story (you think you were bored? think of me!) I will leave you with this: alcohol, no matter how nice and fun it is at the time, is not your friend. It is a backstabbing prick of a thing that wants nothing more than your total and complete demise, for no reason other than sport and its own entertainment. Limit spending time with this absolute bastard to three, four times a week, max.
Disclaimer: I may or may not have had my foot on the exaggerator with some or all of the details in this blog entry.
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