Hey. I see your judgmental eyes peering at the screen while you hover, hoping that no one is looking over your shoulder and judging you when they think you’re just really dedicated to spreadsheets but catch you looking at your sites. You aren’t better than me. You aren’t better than her. You aren’t better than a girl sneaking out after a hit it and quit it. Actually, you’re worse because you’re jealous of her; even though she slept in her makeup last night and as a result got night zits along her chin. Yeah… you’re still worse.
Uggghhhhhhh. My eyes aren’t even open and they hurt. Like…they hurt. Why did I drink so much red wine last night? I know it gives me the worst hangovers known to man kind, but come on. Do I really have to deal with this shit on a Thursday?
…It’s Thursday right?
Oh, whatever. Gotta bite the bullet and fight another day.
*Commences stretch which results in a right hand smacking you straight in the cheek. Not hard enough to wake you up, of course. But hard enough to snap those hangover ridden eyes wide open.*
Did I really?! NO. Maybe if I squeeze my eyes shut tight enough it will make this all a drunk, merlot-fueled dream. Doesn’t matter that squeezing my eyes that tight makes it feel like my brain would like to squeeze out of my ears. This is absolutely going to work.
Aaaaaand the snoring body is still there. Awesome.
Where the hell am I? I remember pretending to not worry about how much the cab was going to cost, but how far away from civilization did I actually go? Is this a reboot of that PBS film about Pioneer life? Okay good, it isn’t. Would leaning across his sleeping body and looking for a landmark so I know how far from home I am be deemed inappropriate? Whatever I’m going to go for it.
Great. I’m in Northgate. (Or whatever far enough neighborhood makes it applicable to you, dear reader.) So that means either walking for six hours, a $40 Uber, or hoping I can get cell service in this wasteland long enough to find public transit or a friend who owes me a favor. I’m really glad I went to a four year university so I could use my problem solving skills on something like this.
Is he going to read into it when I’m not there when he wakes up? Who am I kidding? I’m the American Single Male dream right now. Trying to GTFO before 9 a.m. Wife me up. But really….
Okay, where is my bra?
Where is my top?
Where are my pants?
Why is there a bong with sunflowers inside of it vase style sitting on my pants?
I wonder if he has a good job…
Dude. He is sleep-farting on a futon covered with flannel printed sheets while the title screen to season one of It’s Always Sunny… plays because you were both too fucked up to turn it off when you inevitably passed out on each other. He has a Brita that is somehow growing mold. Stop kidding yourself. He’s probably a sandwich artist.
An Uber is on its way! I knew there was a reason I volunteered in high school to tell kids not to smoke even though two years later I’d be conning 40-year-olds into buying me Camel Crushes. Karma. It’s all karma.
I swear to God, if he has an alarm system and it goes off while I’m trying to get out of here, I will just run. He will see me and be confused and still naked, but it’s fine. I won’t have to stay and deal with ADT asking why the sliding glass door was ajar at 5:17 this morning, so I’d say this sounds like the superior alternative.
Did I really decide I would walk?
Eh…it’s nice out and maybe the fresh air will help my hangover.
Plus, this way I’ll start getting my steps in way earlier than Caroline since she’ll be out cold for another two hours. Take that, bitch.
Wait, is walking barefoot worse?
*steps on the tiniest of tiny rocks*
YEP, IT’S WORSE.
I wonder if classy ladies used to do this and the reason nobody knew is because cellphones weren’t a thing. They could go, bang a dude, and flip those curls around without so much as a “Mother may I,” before going home and acting like nothing ever happened. I have to say, this is one of the few times I have not wanted Snapchat.
This is the worst. I am sweaty, and not from good things. I am regretting everything. Every whiskey shot, every high five, every second.
Fuck it, I’m calling an Uber. .
Image via YouTube