11.30am
I wake up fully clothed underneath my armour of blankets and pillows without any sense of time. It could be the day after yesterday’s night of one too many drinks. I could’ve only taken a nap. Chances are I’ve slept through an entire day or century, who knows?
11.32am
Turns out my phone does. I decide it’s way too early for someone as hungover as me to get up, and that I deserve to waste at least one more hour. After all, it’s not like it was me who inflicted so much pain upon myself, but rather some secondary, less sensible part of me whom I don’t have to identify with. And even if so, I’m sure my therapist will sort me out with some part of my childhood to blame it on. I go back to bed with zero guilt.
1.40pm
Huh, I only slept for an hour. Strange. I mean, this could be a sign that my body is actually ready to get up and seize the day, but I’d rather use my hangover as an excuse to do nothing at all. Also, my boyfriend is undoubtedly warmer and more inviting than the outside world, so I might as well stay here for a little longer.
1.54pm
If I stay in bed for six more minutes, my notorious post-drunk existential angst will kick in and remind me of my mortality, so I better jump out of bed before it hits 2pm. I just had the painful realisation that I forgot to buy milk, so in an attempt to motivate myself to leave the house, I go through a list of things I need to achieve in order to feel like I haven’t wasted an entire day as a result of drinking the night before. Get up. Buy milk. Have breakfast. Go to the gym. Come back and write. Binge some show you’ve seen before as a reward for staring at a blank Word document for fifteen minutes before getting up to clean the kitchen instead.
1.58pm
Thanks to drunk me, I was already fully dressed so I brush my hair, put on some shoes and a coat, and convince myself that I’m invincible. I’m just as fine as I told myself I would be when I had my last drink the night before. Thank God I know my limits, otherwise I’d just have to postpone everything on my to-do list again. But not this time. I’m ready for battle. I decide to go to the gym after my breakfast and pretend last night never happened. I feel victorious.
2.15pm
There’s no chance I’m going to the gym today. Someone must’ve planted a time ticking nuclear bomb inside my head last night, since it didn’t go off until I got dressed and left the house. I squint my eyes in an attempt to prevent the sun from burning me into flames like a vampire that’s been sleeping in a coffin for thousands of years. Never have I ever had a stronger desire to teleport myself into that coffin.
2.30pm
Instead of storming into Tesco with full force, I accidentally bump into an ever so chatty and cheerful acquaintance of mine. I try to do that thing people do when they really just want to shout a friendly hello as they’re passing someone they know on the street. No success. He keeps me from entering like an overly authoritative bouncer in front of a night club. I try to keep up with his smile and wonder if the corners of his mouth will reach his eyebrows in a second. I get scared and look away. I convince myself that I don’t hate nice people. I smile back the entire time until my cheeks start bleeding internally.
2.40pm
After being imprisoned in awkward chit-chat, I make it out alive and walk straight past the shopping baskets. I only need some bread and milk anyway.
2.45pm
This is now the third time that I’m walking back and forth between two fridges full of ice cream. The angel on my shoulder tells me that I’ll only feel worse after eating an entire tub of ice cream, but his little neighbour on the other side is way cooler so I decide to trust him instead. After all, he knows how to have a good time, just like he showed me yesterday.
2.50pm
I put the ice cream back, and walk towards the till with pride and an empowering feeling of being in control.
2.55pm
I come out the shop with a tub of ice cream, crumpets, whipped cream, bread, milk and a basket full of newborn puppies. The latter might have been a lie but I really wish it wasn’t.
3pm
I feel absolutely defeated after carrying the shopping up four flights of stairs like a CrossFit athlete, and throw my bag on the floor. It’s hard to ignore the little leprechaun inside my head that’s clearly digging his little hammer in search for gold, but I make it to the kitchen anyway.
3.10pm
After two crumpets, a spilled coffee, and a little cry on the floor about how utterly useless and dysfunctional I am, I’ve finally made it onto the couch. To complete the ideal zero-guilt hangover meal, I open the tub of ice cream and spoon away. It’s not like a healthier, more regenerating meal would be the right choice here anyway. Think about it: If that’d be the case, when would we ever be able to correctly use the phrase “Fight fire with fire”? Turns out Shakespeare or God or whoever coined that phrase must’ve been right about something after all. I don’t know about you, but I’d definitely drink to that - cheers!
