Living through your morning after hangover
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We've all been in a situation where we have many, many things that are in vital need of being completed. So we set aside some time to get them done - but something (and by something I mean friends and alcohol) always seems to come along and get in the way... Last night I set aside some time to catch up on Broadchurch, get some coursework done and tidy my house, which in turn would leave me some time today to go into town sort out a new phone, buy my little brother some jeans and various other errands that I needed to run. However, when I entered my front door yesterday, I was greeted with the sight of empty bottles of beer and an overpowering smell of alcohol and young men. The pre-drinking had already begun at number 26. At first it was very easy to put off drinking because of my severe lack of money and my long list of things to do. However, seeing all of your housemates slowly killing brain cells and becoming illiterate comedians eventually infects you with the urge to do the same. Resulting in a big night out... The big night out is not the problem. The night out is the utterly fabulous part. Meeting strangers, spending copious amounts of money and celebrating your youth and perky body parts. The problem is the aftermath. Mentally I have returned to conciousness. There is a pain in my back and I am most definitely not in my bed. Afraid of where I actually am situated, I keep my eyes shut for as long as possible in an attempt to build up the guts to glance upon last nights mistakes. I am on the sofa. When you wake up on your own sofa its a very grateful moment. You start thanking God for getting home safe, you thank your drunken self for not totally losing all control of life and its meaning and you actually feel a little bit proud of yourself for not waking up in a stranger's, or even worse your housemate's bed. The period spent on the sofa is not for getting up, its not for texting your friends or giving someone a quick call (unless you're ringing your boss because you've mysteriously come down with the flu and there is just no way you're going to be able to make it in today). Whilst I am lying on the sofa I go through a quick recall of last night to see what I can remember, and what I wish I didn't. So far, so good. But wait, how the hell did I get home? They say that the walk home is always the most dangerous part of one's night. I completely agree. A young, vulnerable and drunk girl walking around Portsmouth (or whereever) may as well have a sign above her head that reads 'ATTACK ME'. You would think that this is the part of my night I would pay the most attention too, that I would keep switched on for this part. This is never the case. The journey home from the pub is always a staggered one with fragmented recollection and very little attention to detail.
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