7 a.m.: You wake up. Your body is covered in some sort of green glitter. Wait, nope. That’s garbage. You’re covered in garbage. You are still very much drunk, and your mouth tastes like a combination of cigarettes, whiskey, stale beer, and mysteriously like Chinese food. However, there’s no evidence that supports you consumed Chinese food.
7:03 a.m.: You open your nightstand and shovel Advil into your mouth. It doesn’t matter how many. You reach for the water next to your bed, but there’s nothing in it. You rush to the bathroom to wash it down. A few pills are already losing their delicious, candy-coated shell. Some dribble out of your mouth into the sink. You put a few of them back in your mouth even though one of them had hair on it. You don’t care.
7:15 a.m.: Eh, back to bed.
8:15 to 8:37 a.m.: You have a lucid dream where your alarm noise is constantly blaring in the background.
8:40 a.m.: You leap out of bed after you finally come out of your cat nap. You take a quick shower, only really washing your hair. You scrub vigorously with the residual shampoo that’s cascading down your broken body.
8:47 a.m.: It’s a miracle you could move this quickly. You’re in the car, but your tie is untied and you forgot a belt. Good thing you planned ahead and stocked that utility drawer in your desk you talked about last Friday. Your drawer is complete with Rolaids, your One A Day vitamins, an unopened Vitamin Water, Emergen-C packets, Chick-fil-A sauce, some scotch tape, and a freshly pressed white button-down shirt (Don Draper-style).
9:04 a.m.: You made it just in time. You were also the third person into the office, which is pretty awesome. You don’t feel that guilty. Maybe you’ll just start showing up at 9:30 every day?
9:15 a.m.: You have morning coffee with your office BFF, Tim. Both of you share your exploits from the previous night. Tim was smart and went home at 11:30. Tim laughs and tells you about his Cinco de Mayo hangover of 2012 and how he fell asleep on the toilet for 45 minutes. It’s a nice bonding moment.
9:25 a.m.: You stare blankly at your computer screen, dreading someone might email you. The work will have to come to you today. You know you have no shot at being productive today.
9:34 a.m.: You feel guilty about calling yourself a “self-starter” in your job interview.
9:45 a.m.: No one has sent you any emails, still. You begin recalling last night. You went straight to O’Dowd’s after work and got some great compliments about your green power tie. You still don’t remember where the garbage came from.
9:47 a.m.: Aw, fuck. Jeff just emailed you. He needs that report you finished yesterday. Whoops…you left for the bar right at six and forgot to do it. You stall and try to wrap it up in 30 minutes.
10:15 a.m.: You have a moment of panic as you click “send” to Jeff. You didn’t attach the file–you type up quick apology email with attached file.
10:30 a.m.: You come out of your panic attack after thinking you were going to get fired for sending superfluous emails. Jeff was in the military and he’s a no-nonsense kind of guy, but he sends you a “No worries. Best, Jeff” email. You’re in the clear.
10:45 a.m.: You haven’t eaten anything yet. The thought of food nauseated you when you showed up to work, but now your blood sugar is low and your senses are clouded. Too early for lunch?
11:15 a.m.: You’ve waited long enough. Time to hit Friday’s.
11:35 a.m.: You and Tim show up to Friday’s. You think about soldiering through a beer to even yourself out, but it’s only Tuesday and your mom had that talk with you (again) last Thursday.
11:40 a.m.: You almost went with the two for $10 special, but opted for the full Jack Daniel’s platter. You almost vomit saying “Jack Daniel’s” as it stirs up foggy memories of you ripping Jameson shots at the bars last night. Whatever. You need sustenance. An early lunch calls for a heavy hitter.
11:45 a.m.: You’re on your third water, recounting your night with Timbo. You were at O’Dowd’s for a couple of hours. Then went to Kilkenny’s for 30 minutes, but left because it was dude city. After Kilkenny’s, it was some lounge-type place throwing a half-assed St. Patrick’s Day party. Then blackness. Tim laughs sympathetically and says, “Been there.” Tim’s solid.
12:05 p.m.: Your food finally gets to the table and you are ready to vanquish this hangover once and for all. Crush.
12:15 p.m.: You wait for Tim to finish his sirloin and spinach. You feel better. You’ve weathered the storm.
12:30 p.m.: The two of you head back to the office. You still have no idea where the garbage came from.
12:30 to 4 p.m.: Work.
4:45 p.m.: You get a text from friend: “Good St. Paddy’s.” Attached is a picture of you passed out in a pile of garbage behind Kilkenney’s.
Good St. Paddy’s indeed.