9am
I wake up feeling like someone had just dropped a nuclear bomb in my head. Apparently, my body doesn’t give a flying fuck about last night’s decisions and its inevitable consequences, since I wake up around four hours too early for any possible regeneration. As much as I condemn my body as if it’s an external part of me with its own autonomy, I’m completely aware that I’m far away from being entitled to any form of sympathy or compassion. I did this to myself. All I can do now is to deal with the issue the same way anyone would when they accept the things that are out of their control: I fall asleep.
11am
To my disappointment but not surprise, nothing’s changed ever since I made the decision to do nothing. I decide to feel sorry for myself for a couple of more hours and burrito myself up in my duvet, but the metaphor reminds me of how hungry I am and now I can’t decide whether my exhaustion will be strong enough to trump my hangover appetite.
11.35am
My mind is scrolling through all the takeaway menus I’m about to look up on my phone. Do I want chicken and chips or chicken with chicken? The decision seems to get tougher the longer I wait and I stick to the common rule of “when in doubt, always choose chicken” – Lil Konfuzius 2k18 or something. That could’ve also been a quote from the KFC sign that suddenly started talking to me that one time I walked past it while I was high, but I’m too hungover for historical accuracy so I decide to stick with the rule anyway, just in case.
11.50am
It’s taken me around fifteen minutes to choose what I want only to find out that the minimum for delivery is a £10 order. I’m unsure whether I can justify an overpriced and probably slightly poisonous hangover meal after a binge night with zero nutritional benefits. The right decision would probably be to get out of bed and walk to the shop myself, but it’s cold outside and I’m feeling fragile. I roll around my bed in contemplation and wonder why bad things happen to good people who make bad decisions. The aha-moment kicks in after I rethink that previous sentence and I finally accept my unfortunate fate.
12.10pm
I dip my foot into the cold air, convinced that life’s already full of too much suffering and that I should, for once, do something to minimise it. After the fifth attempt to let go of my duvet, I’m granted a genius lightbulb moment by the part of my brain that’s still functioning relatively well. Holding on to the duvet that is currently my only source of comfort, I roll out of bed and crawl to my wardrobe. For a second I mutate into a snail and slither across the floor while shedding my skin (pyjamas) to put on a new layer of protection (underwear, two jumpers, thermos, that should do). Prepared for the harsh conditions of my hangover safari, I finally let go of my duvet and successfully attempt to stand up straight after last night’s many attempts to successfully fail at it. I feel victorious.
13.15pm
My next moment of acting responsibly (that’s already twice today!) occurs in the kitchen. Why spend money on overpriced takeaway when you have a fridge full of food right in front of you? I open the fridge door and hear angels sing as soon as the light shines bright on all of my little saviours. Quickly I spot the butter and the cheese, fully and unapologetically ignoring the fact that you shouldn’t eat any dairy products when you’re hungover. I know I’ve already come so far, but I never said I was perfect.
13.16pm and seconds of disappointment later
WHERE IS THE GODDAMN BREAD. That’s it, no cheese sandwich for me then. I guess fate or God or whoever is playing this prank on me didn’t want me to have one. I’ve had enough. It’s time to prepare for war.
13.20pm
Now that I’ve overcome the critical weather conditions inside my own flat, the only obstacle in front of me is the journey from my home to the next kebab shop, and my fragile willpower to make myself walk there. Realising the duality between my often more sensible, rational mind who wants me to have food and half a packet of Ibuprofen to feel better, and the little whiny bitch inside of me who wants to stay at home where it’s warm and safe, I decide to take the path of self-care. Even if that means throwing myself into the battle zone that is town centre.
13.35pm
Why does the world have to be so overpopulated? And why do I live in a place where overpopulation isn’t just a news story I can completely detach myself from whilst happily living in my safe, Utopian bubble?
13.50pm
My wings and cheesy chips (fuck rules made by pseudo-philosophers and autonomous KFC signs) are officially in the making and I can’t wait to go home, drown in chicken and Netflix, and talk to no one for the next three hours. Clearly my face doesn’t scream self-induced suffering and temporary anti-social behaviour enough, so there’s nothing stopping the guy behind the counter to start a chat with me. Luckily he’s a nice guy and doesn’t force me to laugh at any jokes of his secret stand-up material and he sets me free after ten minutes. Off I go with my plastic bag full of greasy goodness.
14.10pm
The flat suddenly doesn’t feel as cold and hostile anymore, and I almost contemplate not to cuddle up in bed again but to eat in the kitchen like any other civilised person would do. But then again, why live a hangover half-way? Two seconds later I’m under the duvet with a spicy wing hanging out of my mouth, and my Netflix account loading on my laptop. My journey to recovery finally begins.
