That was not a hangover. This is a hangover.
I am humbled.
Yesterday pales into insignificant, “just didn’t get my full 8 hours” bullshit.
Today I woke half an hour late for work. I peeled my face off the bed. Why was my face attached to the sheets, I wondered as I deposited my feet on the ground and ruffled my hair in confusion.
Vomit is why. Recollections of a feeble head-turn and spew in the middle of the night. I puked out the side of the bed…numerous times… like I was on a boat or something. I look overboard. Laptop wire, cups, smokes, ashtray, phone, handbag… all are coated with a gelatinous layer of stomach contents. I remember tequila shots. I remember queueing for the toilets and the bile rising…. a girl in front of me strode forward but faltered at the sight of my hamster cheeks. Ungh…. she let me go first. I sat on the toilet, pretending to myself that I didn’t need to vomit. My lacy undeies around my ankles. I puked all over the floor and my underwear. Shit. Consider going commando versus wearing puke in my crotch. Wipe the offending matter away as well as I can. Going commando is gross. Who am I, Lindsay Lohan?
I’m fucking shitfaced. Go back out there with a little hoard of bile in between my legs. My chances of getting head tonight… what’s half of nothing?
It’s karaoke night. I arrived smug, intending to laugh at people as they put themselves out there. I ended up singing the words to everything, everything,, even the instrumentals…. Got up on stage at one point. Looked awesome.
Drunkenly decided to go for it with hottish guy who has a girlfriend. Asked him pointed questions about girlfriend. Her whereabouts, for instance. Made plans to exercise together. Rubbed my smooth legs against his. He didn’t remove his legs. I blearily convinced myself he would fuck me anyway. I always cheated on my boyfriends, why would a guy be any better? Start being more ridiculous and sexy. Think using my bra as a wallet is some sort of smooth move, so I spend a lot of time rooting around there as the men pretend not to look… Take it too far when I add my lighter and phone.
It’s 2 am. The karaoke is done. I’m still singing, but the karaoke night is over.
Hank Scorpio arrives.
Everyone starts to leave. I grasp at their presence…. beer… more beer? Anyone, beer?
“I have work in the morning too”.
Hank Scorpio is up for a beer. I let him buy me one. We sit on stools and his legs slot in between mine. I sit further away, but his legs still touch mine. I am sure it’s a fault of the stools. He talks. I listen. I am now totally convinced he is on the same page as me. Friend zone. I talk. He listens. He strokes my thigh. I reprimand him, reminding him of his friend zone status. He wasn’t aware of that… Oh right, it’s something I decided in my own head.
We go somewhere else… along the way I tell him I’m really not attracted to him. I know he wants to fuck me, I say. I don’t really care. He doesn’t give up. He asks me if there’s no tiny part of me that wants to fuck him. I laugh out loud.
“Dude… I want to fuck every guy I meet, on some level. Just not enough to actually do it.”
He asks me if I at least want to kiss him.
I admit, I want to fuck him a lot more than I want to kiss him. He brightens.
I try to straighten things out. I explain things… badly. I don’t want to fuck him. I mean I do, because I want to fuck every guy I see. But it’s just because it turns me on when people want to fuck me. I don’t really want to fuck him. He asks to kiss me on the cheek. He lingers there, doing my “this is how awesome head would be” move. Ugggghhhh if only I found him attractive. I tell him I just don’t, as my vomit-soaked underwear gets slippery. I consider fucking him again. No, he annoys me too much…. the sex might be good but the aftermath would be too unpleasant.We have a big row. I accuse him of being racist? For some reason… he gets into my taxi and tells me he is coming back with me. I tell him no, I have work in the morning… what? that’s not my reason. I apologise for my mixed signals. I tell him definitively I will not fuck him. But I think he’s a cool guy. He is unimpressed. My taxi driver makes a comment after he gets out, about my friend’s lofty aspirations. Taxi driver tells me I’m too hot. I’m happy. I chatter aimlessly… touching on topics like the economic climate, and my search for cock. We become good friends. I accept, mull over and dismiss the idea of bringing taxi man back to my place for a fuck. Something logical is still at work in there… But maybe I’d get my trip for free? No. Bad. No. Don’t remember how we parted. He was nice though. Raped my wallet a little bit. Oooooh now I remember showing him my swiss army knife.
I’m at work. I woke up late. I woke up late and put my feet down on the ground, in the vomit and broken glass. Why broken glass, why? Oh no… my favorite beer tankard. It’s an actual tankard I stole from a bar in Switzerland on my honeymoon. It’s so awesome. Now it’s broken. Glass annoys me feet. I remember trying to rub up against hottish guy with girlfriend. I remember making plans to go running with him in the evenings. I wonder if he wants to fuck me.
Where is my laptop? Where the fuck???? Convinced I must have fucked taxi man and he stole my laptop. Find laptop in my bed… remember clasping it to my chest in a desolate embrace. That’s fucking great, because otherwise it would have been in the line of fire when I vomited my guts over the side of my bed. Hope didn’t squash it. Hope didn’t facebook… Oooh have to get up. Work. Late. Taxi? Taxi. Fuck balls. Could have bought a little dress with that money.
I root around in my bra and find no money. Puzzling. I open my wallet… ahhhh yes. Remember why there is no money. Stayed out a bit late with Hank. Have to stop doing that. He’s not my friend. He’s a guy who wants to spread my legs and penetrate my vomit patch. Oh groan… remember talking about sex. I have a problem.
Quote: “I’m not into anal sex. I think, the feeling of being about to shit myself has no place in the bedroom.” Shut up shut up shut up. It was probably completely out of context, too. Oh no… it wasn’t.
“I’m not a golden shower enthusiast.”
“Rimming… hey why the hell not.”
“I think women are sexy as fuck, I just don’t like vagina.”
“I don’t ‘like cock’ in the abstract. I like cock in the sense that it might be attached to someone I’m attracted to.”
“Boobs are awesome. I get the appeal. I would definitely fuck a woman, if there wasn’t a pussy involved.”
“I prefer to give head than receive.”
“yes, I did have a fuck buddy…I’ve had several… but it always ends badly. Either I want to fuck them again, and I become convinced I’m in love, or I don’t want to fuck them again, and I spend months avoiding them”
OH my fucking idiocy. This is how I try to repel some guy? Stupid person. Stupid. Never again.I mean yes, he did manipulate me a little into saying this sort of shit, but really…. no one is to blame but my self.
Oh I really do want to fuck the hottish guy though. He was totally into the leg touching. I did touch his thigh briefly too, and he didn’t reject it. Plus he had a good look while I used my breast-holders as a handbag. Oh want to fuck him. I want to fuck him and I don’t remember if guys with girlfriends will fuck me or not. It’s been so long…
And now I’m in work. I feel so rough. I look so rough. The girls in the bar next door laughed when they saw me. “Another late one, eh?” Yes. I croaked my order and lay my head on the cool marble countertop. Coffee didn’t help much. Water…. fucking water…
I don’t want to work. Yes I know my concept of work is a little skewed… I consider my mere presence at work to count for 90%, and I have internet access and I’m writing this from my place of business… oh jeeeeeesus my breath. It tastes like an ugly man’s cock. I rifle through my current memories. No cock found. It’s the puke… oh fuck I smell so bad. It’s in my hair too. I am no way going to sell clothes and leather goods today. Already two customers have come and breathed my fumes and gone… I have to fucking sleep.
I have to smell better. Chewing gum? Deodorant? I still reek. Oh man. Fuck. Stupid asshole self. Making drunken decisions. I would have stayed out all night too, but for overly pushy Hank and his magical method of drawing out all my slutty conversation pieces…. I hate this shit. Be over. Be over now. An old woman enters the shop. I am standing upright and twitching awfully. That is my only goal. If I can stay vertical everything will be fine. I realise she spoke to me. I shudder out some words I think are polite. My eyelids are so heavy with last night’s makeup and lack of sleep. I tease some vomit out of my hair which I forgot to brush. I see my reflection. Damn, I still look pretty fine. Customer asks me questions about the fabric of some skirt. I panic and make some shit up on the spot. It doesn’t appear to have been relevant. She leaves looking haunted. I am unsteady and leaning against the wall with my eyes closed. Another cunt is in my shop now, asking me about fucking gift wrap. How dare you. How fucking dare you accost my like this. Gift wrap? Do it yourself, motherfucker. Do I look like I went to a three day seminar on folding shit and putting it in expensive packages? No? Correctomundo. I have not visited a wrapping retreat. Smell me. Drink it all in…. Now ask me again if I want to gift wrap your stingy present to some friend you clearly don’t like. I decide to do the wrapping, but stash a really low price tag inside the wallet she’s buying. Hahahahahah fuck you. Buy your own wrapping paper. I hate these people. Oh nausea. Oh fuck.
Dying. Want to climb back into the pools of primordial ooze and chemicals and shit. Feeling ashamed of my ancestors who used their excess energy to evolve and become me, the pinnacle of stuff…. and I’m barely upright, swaying….. incapable of thought. Evolution, my hole.
Want to go back.
Want to be in bed. Remember the puke all over my sheets. How am I going to get all that puke out of all my fucking possessions? Feeling mighty low.
A girl comes in as I sellotape the giftwrapped wallet like a five year old. I’m trembling. My eyes are zooming in and out of their own accord. I don’t want the close ups. I want normal range. Eyes do not obey… I survey my package. Not my best work. Customer looks a little put out. I see her eyes take in the fullness of my hungover self. She’s making a mental note to never have children, just in case one of them winds up like me.
Oh fuck she’s gone but the other girl who came in is a regular customer. She has some weird bubbly delusion that because I once told her a skirt suited her (dude, I work here. I will not tell you it looks bad…), we are best friends. She starts to talk to me. I give her the not now face. I don’t have the energy for this fake pleasantry crap.
I smell so bad. I resolve to fuck that guy who has a girlfriend. Hey, if he’s willing…. I wonder what she looks like. Facebook time! Damn, novelty profile picture. No information regarding hotness. I wonder what else I said to him last night. Why didn’t I tell HIM about my appreciation of other women’s nipples instead of the guy I don’t want to fuck? Why? Why? I do this. I’m retarded. Ohhhhhh bathroom time. No luck alleviating nausea. Vomit is not forthcoming NOW. I used it all up last night, showering my possessions in some unidentified crud…. Remember extracting my keys from the mess this morning. Washing them… Smelling them. Washing again. It dawns on me why I exude so much stink. I’m still wearing the knickers from last night. The ones I actually vomited on. Go commando? Why didn’t I go commando? I go commando now. Shit. Work is not a nice place to be today. Thinking hungrily of hottish guy. Imagine he would be pretty cool in the sack. He’s at the right spot in the spectrum of hotness. Too good looking, never had to try. Too ugly, never had the experience. This guy’s probably juuuuuuuust right. Oh want to fuck. Want to. Know I shouldn’t. Not for moral reasons- nobody should feel bad about cheating. It’s a natural thing. Especially not the person who’s outside the relationship. I don’t owe anybody anything. But is it fair of me to try and knowingly seduce a guy who has a girlfriend? Fuck it. Bros before hoes. I don’t know this bro’s ho anyway. Fuck her. Stupid greedy bitch, tying up all the hottish men when I need them.
Stop this. Be nice. Be fucking nice. Sorry man I’m just feeling rough as fuck and all I want is a good…. ohhhh fuuuuuck remembering more inane bullshit I was spouting to mr Scorpio…. crap. Realllllly giving him mixed signals. Don’t mean to. Really don’t. Need to fuck somebody soon or will actually devolve. Ungh work is upsetting me. I smell so bad. I really do. I’m sorry
I attempt to charge a customer the sum of 1864539… the numbers under the barcode. Too fucking fucked to read the prices. Numbers swim murkily before me, mixing with coloured shapes… making no sense. Luckily no one has good enough credit for the sale to go through. I apologise. I’m fucked. She sees my stupid face and thinks I’m a junky trying to steal her money indiscretely for my next fix. I croak out some more apology… she smiles weakly like a hostage in a bank robbery. She leaves, looking me terrified in the face until she is outside and free…. The fresh air and familiar streets probably rush her body with pleasure. I remember leaving my bike somewhere last night. I remember making plans for this evening….
I remember hottish guy (let’s call him Quentin) being friendly. Very friendly. Or is he just a friendly guy? No… he wants me. Definitely. Oh my feet fucking stink. Everything about me stinks. I realised why I have been left alone more or less all day… and haven’t sold a thing… had the closed sign facing prospective customers.
And old bag comes in to wreck my head. She bellows some shit about “looking for a skirt for someone her age.” I give her the blank, disinterested gaze of a cow chewing grass. I wave in the direction of some skirts. I begin… “the skirts…. there… all…” and trail off. She begins hassling me with questions. I realise I have a bored lonely fucking old woman on my hands. She discusses how to wash the skirts. She asks about how it might be possible to have the skirts shortened. I’m like, do these people have some fucking ridiculous idea that girls who work in shops go through some rigorous training? Do we receive information packs with details of everything we sell, along with proper care and washing of fabric, the basics of garment construction… how to fold things nicely. I try to tell her something useful. I am incredibly rude and she slips off to some other area of the shop. I can barely fucking keep my eyes open. I look in the mirror. From the distance I look seriously hot. Then I get closer. Still hot. Then my eyes focus in on what I’m looking at. I look like a close-up of an ass in Ren and Stimpy. Or spongebob… My eyes are red and barely open at all. My hair is worse than sex hair. It’s matted and vomit-infused. It’s sticking up all over the place. It’s disgusting. A panic overcomes me… that maybe I’m naked. What if I’m naked, and I didn’t realise? I’m walking around fucking naked! I remember I’m looking in a mirror, and check to see am I naked. I am not naked. Congratulate myself on this detective work. Realise slowly that doubting whether you are wearing any clothes while looking in the mirror is pretty pathetic and psycho.
Hangovers. Fucking hangovers. My head is killing me…. where are those headache pills? I took them home with me. Idiot. I have to remember to stash some clean undies, deodorant, tights and pain killers around the shop for these increasingly frequent hangover days. Only an hour and 45 minutes until home time. I can go home then… and face the pukorama in my bedroom. Will need to keep a bucket by the bed. But I never repeat the same offense…. Remember singing “Zombie” at the top of my lungs to a room of tired bar staff putting up chairs… and Hank Scorpio who was touching my leg.