Blind Panic.

I'm typing this on my brand-spanking-new laptop, (let's hear a cheer of relief, excitement, whatever) because it's taken me days to fully work out even its navigation system. Who knew, Windows 8 is really confusing, especially with a touch-screen. Armed with industrial strength coffee, I am attempting to steady myself. Sleep deprived, on the edge of a nasty hangover, I'm procrastinating like never before. With an assignment due on Thursday, all I really want to do is hide under my bed covers and channel my avoidance for the foreseeable future. I'm too tired to function, so let's all forget the work and bask in the laziness that goes hand-in-hand with Sunday evenings. 

#blindpanic.

Don't flatter yourself.

The spring in my step isn't down to you. I’m not giving you credit for the smile plastered across my face or the way my pulse is racing. My sore feet. My angry texts. My lack of dignity. My rotten hangover and inability to keep any food down. My tear-stained cheeks, my bloodshot eyes and my shaking hands. Those are down to you, partly, and somewhat due to the sheer amount of alcohol I binged on the other night. That horrible what-did-you-do-last-night feeling you can’t shift from the pit of your stomach. The self-hatred. The mind-numbing headache and feeling of regret. So, here's to the ability I have of pretending everything is okay. Of dusting myself off, getting back up and starting all over again. Don't flatter yourself. I'm more than capable of coping without you.

It's not quite Cider With Rosie.

It's a Saturday night and I'm singing to Don McLean's American Pie, burnt to a crisp, dangerously hungover and I have no plans, and I couldn't be happier. The simple things are sometimes what matter most.

My drinking escapades never to fail to amuse, embarrass and surprise me. Sometimes for the best, sometimes not so much. Last night was no different. A few drinks with food turned into a few of us heading home, involving a quick shower, an even quicker outfit change and by the stupidly early time of half six, one of my friends and I were out resuming our drinking. Lovely weather, a couple of cold refreshments and you're sorted, yes? Well, not quite. Eventful, as all my nights out are. Cue an unhealthy amount of trebles, shots of tequila at seven and jagerbombs at eight. Our "few drinks" rapidly turned into an all-nighter, rolling in at half 3, with messy make up and even messier hair. Today I smell like a brewery. Kind of gladly, kind of not. A good night? A bad night? Who cares, my state speaks for itself I think. A photo would be painful to take, and even more painful to upload. Just picture me as a very hungover, rough girly (with exceptionally burnt shoulders!) So, is it worth it? The banging headache, the nauseating feeling that makes you wish you'd never been introduced to a vodka mixer, never mind five, the soul-destroying feeling of "What did I do last night?" until you piece together the night before. The arguments, the tears, the confrontations, the spilled drinks, the sticky shoes and sore feet. Yes. It's worth it, because sometimes, it's not all screams and nasty words being spat left, right and centre. It's not always arguments and fights and petty disagreements and wrong decisions and bad timing. Just sometimes. And even then, we're young enough to accept that mistakes aren't worth dwelling on. The bad nights make the good nights even better, and a night out isn't complete without one bad decision. After all, the only thing that should be neat, is the vodka. 

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.