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tfw: You Are Just Way Too Fucking Hungover

tfw is a mini personal essay series I’m try to do on Tuesdays to recount second-person experiences of feelings and experiences we all have. Or maybe I’m the only one who has them?

You drank so much last night that you woke up and your heart was beating too fast and you felt like your brain was bulging out of your eyeballs and that you were going to shit out all of your sweat glands and your mouth still tastes like wine, which is a shame because your throat is burned from drinking too many acidic drinks.

Why did you do this to yourself?

You lay in bed and you wonder what happened last. When did you go to bed? What were the last moments before you passed out? You left the bar, you went home, you walked in the house, you took your clothes off, and then you don’t remember. You remember more than you thought, though. You lay in bed and observe that your body is doing a fucked up version mental aerobics, patting your head and rubbing your stomach—but from the inside. You think a thought you always think in this state, “Remember when you didn’t get hangovers? Remember when you were infallible?” You nod and you hate yourself.

You lurch out of bed and you run to the bathroom and you sit there and you release as much as you can from last night into the toilet. You cringe and you open Instagram: safe. You close an eye and you open Facebook: safe. You take a deep breath and you open Twitter: safe. You open your photos: god fucking damn it, where did these photos come from? You stare at the blurs and you laugh at yourself and then your head hurts and then you wonder why you not only drank wine but why you also drank “top shelf” margaritas at a shitty bar. Was that really going to help future, now-you?

You put some clothes on. You meet some people for brunch and everything is too fast, too slow, too loud, too quite, too spicy, too dull, too much. It’s all too much. You put your sunglasses on inside and you start lingering with your blinks. Can you just sleep here? You get in the car and, thankfully, you aren’t driving so you take a quick nap.

You awake at your destination and your wine-tequila induced lobotomy has downgraded from a personal DEFCON Stage White to a personal DEFCON Stage Red. You now have to walk around outside, in the sun, for a few hours because you are with some people who want to be outside and all you can think about is how you could burp or shit everything from last night at any moment. Tastes from a day ago reemerge. You want a taco. Will anyone else eat tacos with you? Yes, you just had brunch but it’s taco time.

No one wants tacos. You continue walking around and, after three hours, you go home. You lay on the couch: it’s only 2PM. You look at the television. Sometimes the television is on as you stare at it, sometimes the television is off: at either state, it’s too much. You think about how you are going to die one day and then you decide you should take another toilet (The fourth of the day?) and you go and tend to that and you think about tacos again but you have no tacos so you eat a slice of cheese and you lay on the couch again and look at the television. You cuddle a dog. You lay and you cuddle and you do nothing and it is eventually 6PM.

You have plans tonight. Do you plan on drinking? No. You are never going to drink again until tomorrow night or maybe even tonight, if the right drink comes near you. Should you keep drinking? Why do people imbibe? Why do people not? You lay on the couch and you keep laying and it’s 9PM and you get dressed and you go out and you have a drink which leads to two drinks which leads to three drinks and the next morning you are a puddle again. A puddle in a bed. You stare at the ceiling and you pet a dog and you realize that the only way to fix this is to purge your entire history of drinking—the nights past, the months past, the years past—by shitting it all out, if you can make it as far as the toilet.

Photo via.

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