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PDA: Post Drinking Anxiety

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Fridays always start out the same way. I’m on top of the world. My mindset on Friday is “Man, after work I’m gonna get a good buzz, hook up with at least six maybe seven chicks tonight. Hot chicks. Chicks that make Mila Kunis look like William H. Macy.”

Reality: I get blacked out, offend every girl I talk to, and wake up in a pile of cheesesteak wrappers. I wake up Saturday morning, dust off the evidence of my late night binge eating, and begin my day. I casually drink throughout the day, maybe catch some sweet rays and get a nice tan. I then repeat Friday night’s actions, stay slightly more sober, convince one girl that I’m not a murderer, and maybe get a make out and a number. Then Sunday, I usually wake up saying “fuck it.” I then indulge in Sunday Funday, especially during football season. Just a typical weekend…but then Monday comes.

When I was younger, drinking didn’t really effect me. I woke up the next day after a blackout and didn’t give two shits what happened the night before. But now, I wake up on monday with something I like to call PDA: Post Drinking Anxiety. Depending on the length of the bender or the girth of the girl I woke up with on Saturday morning, my Mondays tend to go a little something like this.

I wake up for work and look in the mirror. The shame spiral has begun. I examine my face and my inner monologue goes something like: “What the fuck is that? Jesus, it’s an AIDS freckle. I heard Magic Johnson reference these once in an interview. I must’ve gotten it from that girl I made out with on Saturday. I know I read somewhere. Make outs are the most common way to get AIDS. I knew I should’ve used a dental dam!” In reality, it’s a freckle I’ve had since I was six, but my PDA makes my mind function like I’ve been snorting rails of meth with Jesse Pinkman for the past 13 days.

Despite the debilitating AIDS freckle, I finally muster the strength to make it to my car. And the checklist of insanity continues. Inner monologue: “Shit, is that carbon monoxide I smell? I’m going to pass out while driving, crash into a ditch, and somehow my penis will become erect, the seatbelt will tighten around my neck and people will think I died in some sort of sick autoerotic-asphyxiation related car crash. My mom will probably call the Westboro Baptist church to help protest my funeral. Jesus Christ, where did I go wrong?”

I manage to make it to work, but I’ll sit in my car for 15 minutes outside the office contemplating my fate. PDA has helped me conjure some wild scenarios.

Inner Monologue: I’m going to walk in there and Loss Prevention will be waiting for me. “Hey AIDS freckle, it’s your worst day ever. Remember those two KFC bowls you expensed back in 2011? Well, we know you didn’t have lunch with a client. We know you ate those alone in your car, crying about your girlfriend dumping you. So, we’re firing your ass. Take your severance and get that fucking AIDS freckle removed, you goddamn heathen.” But none of this happens. I walk into work and struggle through the morning. I have narrowly avoided getting fired and having to settle for selling window treatments door to door.

Lunch time rolls around. I have made it halfway through the day. PDA has gotten better, but I’m not through it yet. I go to order my lunch from Salad Works. I figure a $10 salad will erase the liver damage and STDs I have contracted over the weekend. If anything, it will at least reverse the jaundice that I know will set in soon. I approach the counter and the inner monologue begins again: “Oh shit, I think I know that guy. I fingered his sister at the farm fair three years ago. He looks like he wants revenge. Come on man, I tried to text her, things just didn’t work out. Plus, that was back in the day when I suffered from terrible anxiety over T9 texting. Oh Jesus, what’s he putting in my salad?! Thats not parmesan cheese; that looks like ricin. I saw this on Breaking Bad. Jesus Christ, I need to get out of here.” I take the salad, throw it in the trash and retreat. The world is against me today. I feel your pain, Miley Cyrus. All I wanted to do was twerk my way through the weekend, and now I’m hiding in an alley behind Salad Works, staring in envy at the bum convulsing on the ground.

Eventually, I get my shit together, and head back to work.

I make it through the afternoon, and head home. My commute home is very similar to commute to work. I run through the list of my sins I’ve committed since I was 16, and think of the impending eternity I will one day spend in hell. I arrive home before my roommates and check the mail.

Inner Monologue: “Oh what’s this? An unmarked letter, addressed to me. Shit, I know what this is. This is a paternity suit from that girl I banged in Europe last summer. How did she find me? I told her my name was Samuel L. Jackson. Those Europeans are so crafty. How could they have never won a World War? Well, it’s settled, I have to fake my own death, maybe leave the country. The Shawshank Redemption made living on the run look pretty cool. I’ll find my own version of Red, and we can make boats in the Mexican Pacific.” I eventually calm down and open the letter. Turns out, Esurance just wanted to save me some money. Maybe I’ll hit them up, wonder if they have masturbation-related accident insurance plans?

Eventually, I am able to subdue myself with exercise. A solid endorphin rush usually does a good job settling my nerves. Then, of course, for good measure, I drink a couple beers to really take the edge off. I evaluate my life as I lie in bed, and think to myself “This anxiety thing really sucks, but it’s a lot better than missing out on the good times I have.” So, despite all of this, by the time Friday rolls around, I’m ready to get back it again. It’s a sick cycle we live, but fuck it. You only YOLO once.

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