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Living through your morning after hangover

16th February 2015
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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.

What the time is is beyond me.  My whole life is one big hungover daze.

I look around for my bag and there is an instant 'fuck' moment.  What did I do to my bag and where the hell is it? I'm 100% sure I brought it home yesterday.  However, as time is continuing the maths calculations differ.  Ok, maybe I'm 70/30 I brought it home... 50/50... I didn't bring it home, I'm such an idiot. Why do I drink? I'm not drinking again. Instant bad mood.  Fuck everyone.

Oh, here it is.  It's all good.

So far, I have woken up in my own home.  I may not have made it up the one flight of stairs to my bedroom but I did get back to my house.  I have my I.D., purse, phone and handbag. I haven't done anything humiliating and there's no strange man with dreadlocks and skinny jeans lying next to me. I would say that last night was a successful night out.

And then I go to stand up... Nope. Ship sunk. Man down. Not happening. I may just have to sleep for a year or so until the hangover's gone.

After another nap, I attempt the whole 'standing up' thing again.  This time I'm more successful, I actually manage to stand upright.  Now that I'm up, it's time to attempt the hangover walk.  This walk is an attempt to get to the fridge as quick as possible to down a litre of orange juice with the added difficulties of being tired and still drunk from the previous night.  As if this wasn't difficult enough as it is, on your hangover walk to the fridge you manage to discover the more serious of your injuries from the previous night. Isn't it funny how you can never remember how you acquired so much damage.  It's almost as if alcohol is bad for you...

You always, always fall.

You always, always find a mysterious bruise or cut.

You always, always hurt a completely random muscle or bone (or whatever) and you cannot think of how you could even manage to hurt yourself there.

Today I have a painful back, cuts all over my knees, cuts all over my left foot, mosquito bites all over me and a suspicious amount of dried blood down my right calf.  But no broken bones... Success! These injuries are always awkward and sting and almost infuriate you. They infuriate you because you cannot remember receiving them.  Which must mean, you did not cause them and they have no right to just show up. My knees are not a hotel!

The rest of 'hangover day' is spent with a blanket, watching television, eating cheesey pasta and telling yourself that your next hangover won't be so bad.  That next time, you won't do shots, because that's the cause of your hungover.  That you don't even get hangovers...

From one member of today's youth to another, you do get hangovers.  And the next one is going to be even worse.

 




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