A month of awesome fun: The hangover

Hung over post, motherfuckers!

I have been off work now for nearly a month.

Tomorrow I fly back to my shitty ball and chain of an apartment, with my ridiculous unpaid bills and distinct lack of food (I hope, or there will be a nasty surprise) and I have to actually work on Monday.

Work again, with the customers and the repetitive futile tasks and the hollow knowledge that every day is going to be just the same as the last, and I have no friends to take the edge off weekends… or weekends to take the edge off weekdays…

Oh man.

Fuck.

I remember everything I’ve done since I took that first flight from Italy, 2 suitcases full of my favorite, cherished, flattering clothes, skinny as fuck, optimistic… parties and festivals and fucks in my near future.

I remember seeing friends and family for the first time in ages, and them complimenting how awesome I looked, and how upbeat and sorted I sounded. Problems were trivial, my life was in a little rut but I had my head high. I spoke warmly of moving to London, of finding a new exciting job, of pursuing interests…

Everyone said I seemed a different person than last time, I felt radiant.

Cue 3 days mild drug taking and then 3 weeks heavy drinking.

I have put on alllll the weight I ever lost, well nearly.

I have spent allllll the money I saved- actually that’s a lie, I haven’t had the balls to even look at my bank details and I can’t remember the login stuff anyway. I may have no money at all. I may arrive in Italy to find I don’t have the cash for the aircoach.

It’s a possibility.

I couldn’t be much gloomier. I realise I’m in exactly the same position as I was a few months ago when I was in shit form. My outlook hasn’t changed really. Oh man I think the hangover may be colouring my perception just a tad.

Last night…. I looked so nice. I got a new dress and I wore high heels and a bucketload of makeup. I looked shit hot and had some of my best buds with me. One friend promised to be my wingman for the final night of debauchery.

I was in a good mood.

I was going to score.

Instead, we wound up leaving the house at 1am, pissed as farts, loud and obnoxious… and hitting the clubs in Brixton.

I remembered my debit card and began charging rounds of drinks to it, waving away protestations like a rich person, or someone who can afford to buy other people drinks.

Jagerbombs and shots of some weird apple liquor…

Unggghhhh…

At one stage, nearing 4am, my wingman gave me the hottie alert by wiggling her eyebrows over my shoulder. I swung round and saw some vague man shape nearby, and decided that yes, he was my mark.

I began dancing sexily. I actually pulled it off, I think, because the dress was pretty slinky and sexy just came naturaly with the smooth fabric against my skin as I got high on my own inflated sense of attractiveness.

I danced sexily near the hottie.

I bumped into him a few times, turning around and apologising with my most charming smile (this is how I perceived things anyway, I was quite drunk, I might have just leered) and laying it on thick with an arm touch.

He didn’t seem interested. I danced in the vicinity for a while, then gave up.

Fuck it anyway, I’m just having a good night. I don’t care if I score.

So we danced. My buddy, intent on hooking me up, awesome friend that she is, went up to the hottie and told him loudly to meet us outside a nearby shop afterwards.

Then it was very late, apparently, so we left.

A little posse of stragglers had formed outside a local shop-  our destination. We began drinking cans of Red Stripe inside and spilling out onto the footpath to chat to whatever random people were around.

Hottie and his friend turned up.

Hottie wasn’t actually too hot under the less flattering street lights, but he was ok really…

His friend, not so much.

I began trying to flirt without appearing in any way interested in hottie, just in case of rejection.

Hottie.. or ok guy… moved to talk to my other friend, my best friend from my childhood who is basically ridiculously good looking. Some of the old memories surfaced of teenage parties and all the guys flocking around her… and my having to wait until they knew they definitely didn’t have a shot with her before I would even register on their radars….

She clearly had no interest in either guy, who we decided to label nerds, because they laughed at a Red Dwarf reference I made. (yeah, smooth moves as always)

But the fact that she didn’t have any interest in scoring them (and has a boyfriend) just made it possible for her to be friendly and look nice and relaxed, whereas I was mindlessly paranoid of appearing interested in someone who didn’t seem to be into me…

Anyway. I was very drunk. I began feeling unattractive, and inferior, and my shoes were killing me.

At one point some big black guy with a bottle of vodka comes up and tells my friend she is gorgeous. She turns her back, and he looks wounded, angry, and his eyes are bloodshot.

He says something to me. I reject him.

He begins bellowing at me:

“Your friend is better looking than you, YOU’RE UGLY, YOU’RE UGLY!”

And continues shouting “You’re ugly”.

Of course, I was seriously hurt and offended, as well as.. hugely embarassed. Everyone was watching.

I was like, “Eh, no I’m not, fuck off, you’re an asshole, I’m not ugly, I’m a lot better looking than you anyway”

And he keeps shouting but moves away.

My friend turns and is like “what a dick” but obviously doesn’t realise that I am reaaaaally fragile right now and any man telling me I’m ugly even when I’m sober  is going to carve a whopping chunk out of my self esteem.

I get in conversations with other people. I meet some Italians, and start talking Italian.

I feel good about myself for a second.

Fuck that other guy. I look good.

The nerd just wasn’t interested because I was being a pussy about flirting and basically trying to play hard to get with someone who hasn’t exchanged more than two words with me.

Then my wingman calls me over to where she’s talking to the big guy who called me ugly.

I was like, no, fuck him.

She told me he wanted to apologise.

I went over, bristling with Jagerbombs and indignation.

YES?

“I just want to say, I apologise.”

I’m like, sorry what? Is that your apology?

“Yeah, I apologise.”

I’m like, you can’t just say I apologise, that’s no apology. If you were actually sorry, you’d say why you’re sorry and what you’re sorry for.

He begins getting annoyed again.

“I apologise if I offended you with what I said”

Eh, hello? Of course you offended me. There’s no if. What are you sorry for?

My friends are yelling, just take the fucking apology and leave it. I’m really pissed off. I shed some rage and injustice tears out my right eye. He stretches out the most begrudging apology I’ve ever heard.

“I’m sorry for calling you ugly. You’re obviously not. Of course not.”

I’m furious with myself for crying. I just want to be away from these horrible people who don’t find me attractive. I’m shamefully delicate, I can heard 999 compliments and the one insult wipes them away in a second. I really, really want to not be like that, but I’m not even as bad as women can be: I don’t read insults out of nothing, like every female in a sitcom…

It’s insane how easy it is for someone I don’t know, don’t like, don’t care about… can have any effect at all on my mood. But yeah, drunk…

Big scary guy looks at me, incredulous.

“What? You actually got upset by that? You must have some fucked up self esteem if a random guy calling you ugly is going to upset you.”

I’m like, yeah, you asshole, it’s called, being a woman. And a drunk woman. You’re a dickhead. Asshole. What kind of asswipe goes around shouting you’re ugly to a random girl on the street?

He’s like “uhh… you shouldn’t believe me, you’re stunning.”

I’m almost buying it for a second and feeling flattered but then I’m like, wait a second, he said my friend was better looking than me too. And he definitely meant that. So fuck him, he’s just bullshitting me now.

I tell him some more stuff like he’s an asshole and storm off.

The bubbly Italian and some other random guys are outside the shop with my other friends.

My unwanted tears make them awkward. I mumble something about how that’s not an apology, and he’s a dick.

They’re all like, yeah he is a dick, but you should just calm down because this is Brixton at 5am and that guy is massive and angry and you’re putting yourself in danger.

Of course I pooh poohed that because, drunk me is not a pussy, although I may cry like one. It’s one of the many things I hate about drunk me. I really wish there was some other option for having a good time and not drinking, or I wish I could just drink in moderation. But I really need the social lubricant. I hate drunk me: I hate my stupidity, my annoying rants, my drama, my sulkiness, how paranoid I get, how irritating I am, and how most of how I act and react is totally at odds with who I am sober.

I feel like the first three or four drinks go down well, I loosen up and dance and have the balls to do things like stand up for myself and flirt and be a bit cheeky about asking for more spirits in my drinks and whatnot..  and then I hit the level of honestly don’t have any idea of consequences any more and just pile in as much alcohol as I can and become super manic and annoying and prone to crying.

I repeat, I’m hung over so it’s pretty natural to feel negative about drinking… but yeah… uhuh…

I wish I was just better at moderation. AND I wish I hadn’t spent so much money last night, imaginary bank card money on drinks to make me feel super shitty today… urgh.

So yeah I had a pretty shit night in the end. We hung out outside the shop for some reason, and then went home where I remember doing a hyperactive monologue on how much I hate giving hand jobs and we were all rolling around laughing as I ranted. But I can’t remember any of what I said, it was probably pretty stupid anyway because we were all pretty fucked.

I woke up today so fucking dehydrated and hung over, I lay quivering in agony for about 2 hours before I was able to go get water.

It has been a seriously rough day, I feel like I’ve been pickled from the inside and now I’m just a barely functioning taxidermy of myself.

Tomorrow I board a plane, which terrifies me.

And I didn’t get to do half the stuff I wanted to.

I was going to walk around London and buy my very first vibrator. I have always been like, pffff, but…it occured to me that I really should have one and I could test out my theory that I’m one of the supposedly 2 thirds of women who can’t orgasm from penetration, or if it’s just something I haven’t experienced because it’s more difficult or because it can only happen in certain positions, or something.

I was also going to score a hottie with a London accent.

I was NOT going to buy a new dress.

I was going to see loads of people I didn’t see.

I’m very miserable today.

Tomorrow I’ll be back home and there won’t be anywhere to buy a vibrator, and I really want one. Ooh! Internet.

But do I want it arriving in the post and having to pick it up? Not really… although it’s hardly going to come in a transparent box.

Ok.

I’ll buy it online.

If I have any money left.

Ok I’m going to have a manual wank before my friends get back from dinner (I was supposed to be packing)

Keep it real.

Later…

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