A Day in the Life of a Hangover
6.30AM: Alarm buzzes. I slap my bewildered cat in response. Senór Mittens does not switch to Snooze setting.
6.45AM: Half-drawn blinds pulled down in a drunken stupor now let the sunlight in like a glorious, eye-melting beacon of death. For now, the ol’ ‘pillow over the head’ seems to do the trick.
7.00AM: Dry mouth hits – or did I go swimming in an ashtray last night? Either way, I need water, and all Drunk Me left on the side table are scattered burger wrappers and an inexplicable amount of sweet & sour sauces. Up yours, Drunk Me.
7.30AM: I venture out in search of water. The world has other ideas and spins me around during my stumble to the kitchen. Senór Mittens looks on with judgy eyes.
40,000 years later: The kitchen was a lost cause. I take refuge in the bathtub and stare down the drain for any hidden sense of dignity … or fried food. Look, I’m not fussed which.
8AM: I’ve turned the shower knob on with my left foot. Last night’s ‘cute AF’ outfit is compromised, but the room is now too steamy for the cat to pass judgement. Success.
8.30AM: I return to bed, now resembling more of a human than ‘that thing that lurks under the overpass’. Last night’s fifth round of tequila shots starts to blur its way back to reality. Time to shove that future repressed memory down with food.
8.45AM: I stab a finger at my UberEats app, eyes shielded through the waffle-weave of my blanket. I’m pretty sure my eyes are trying to burrow out of their own sockets, but I persevere … for the chicken. For the poor souls defeated in pursuit of kebabs. For the Uber driver who listened to me rant about hot chips for 20 solid minutes.
9.30AM: A frightened delivery driver hands food through my window screen. My wet hair, panda eyes, and severe motivation to question everything in my life has turned me into the living twin of that chick from The Grudge. He speeds off without buckling his seatbelt. I think his faith in life has evaporated like the alcohol on my breath.
10.00AM: *Jurassic Park-esque crunching sounds*
11.00AM: My brief food coma ends, and I stare hatefully at every creature that dares to walk past the door. Any housemate that shuffles into my room flees before confirming alive/dead status.
12.00PM: The chicken makes a reappearance. #allwasnotwell
1.30PM: I’m over the hill. I’m on the up. I’m ready to – oh god, who did I text last night?
3.00PM: Only one day into the year, and already craving the sweet, sweet embrace of death.
4.30PM: Two hours of self-pity and an hour of drunk-photo-apologies later, and the self-loathing train has finally arrived at Destination Me. Ready for my next beer, kthx.
5.00PM: Phone call from the boss.
Apparently it’s been Monday this whole time. Who’s ready for another round?