Sunday, 24 March 2013

Wasted weekends.

Opening your eyes even just a fraction, and immediately you wince. The light wounds you, it's too bright. No one prepared you for this. Daylight. Morning (is it?) Sobriety. 

Lifting your head off the pillow, everything stars to spin. Your vision is well and truly compromised. Wince again. You're in a lot of pain. It's self-inflicted. You hate yourself for it. That 'it was a good idea at the time' lark. Mindless self-indulgence. Dry throat, severely dehydrated, hot and shivering at the same time. Alcohol is seeping through every pore in your body. You can smell the night before very vividly. Stale perfume, a stranger's aftershave, day-old beer, vodka remnants, chinese or pizza or some kind of takeaway box is strewn across the bedroom floor, half-eaten, grease glistening. Your stomach flips. A distinct stench of vomit and the feeling that you've forgotten something important. You look in the mirror, gawp at your reflection. 

Your face is blotchy, exhausted, worn. You've had the same make up on for about thirty six hours now, and it's showing. One earring in. You're still wearing last night's dress, but it now has a very obvious rip down the left-hand side. You don't know how you got home, or where your phone is or how much money you threw angrily at the barman demanding 'teeeequilarrr!'  Last night was, probably disastrous. Spilled drinks, smashed glasses, arguments and probably very drunk interactions with the entirely wrong sort of people. Waking up feeling like you've drank the bar. Having bad skin days, bad hair days and generally just had days. You feel run down, and tired and just rotten. Bloated, boring, dull, exhausted. Coffee, painkillers and the comfort of your bed is all you need. 

The day seems to last forever, as you struggle to piece together the night before, with the help of texts from friends. The ones you dread 'Can't believe you last night!' 'How drunk were you?' and the worst are texts from unrecognised numbers. You swear under your breath, realising you must've been giving out your number to anyone who'd take it. As for your sent texts, you can't even bare to read them, as the recipients' names are enough to make you want to bury your head under your duvet for evermore. Although you're well aware that hangover cures don't fully exist, you spend the day trying anything humanly possible to rid yourself of The Hangover from Hell, with no luck. Your aversion to anything remotely alcoholic heightens, ironically. Everything is too loud, too fast, too bright. Your senses spend the day attacking your immune system, until you're well and truly overcome by last night's antics. Retreating to bed, earlier than ever before and as willing as a child on Christmas Eve, only without a Santa-like figure. However, we've all got one little consolation, even if we don't remember the little details, and that's the sheer, undeniable hope that it was worth your while. That last night, no matter how many hours you spent throwing up, how bad your headache was, how much money you threw away and how much of an idiot you made of yourself, that for even a short time, it was worth it.

Who are we kidding? We'll do it all again given half a chance.  

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