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I Went Out On A Sunday And Now I Want To Die

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Hello, everyone. I’m reporting live today from the dark lair that is my apartment right now. Why is it Monday and why am I at home instead of at my job? Great question. The short and sweet answer is that I went out last night on a fucking Sunday and now I am actually dying.

Have you ever been out on a Sunday? I don’t mean have you drunk-brunched and then taken an evening nap which resulted in you waking up at 9 p.m. with a hangover. We’ve all done that. I mean have you actually gone to a bar on a Sunday night? Have you gone out on a Sunday with the intention of ending up hammered?

The Lord’s day. The Sabbath. Have you committed that sin? Because I have. I never thought I would stoop so low, but here we are. God, forgive me. Mom, forgive me.

It’s easy to fall into the trap. It starts with brunch, where the drinks start flowing a little too easily. They start going down a little too quickly. All of a sudden, you’re eating crab legs and drinking champagne and smoking hookah at 3:00 in the afternoon. This was my day, a mere 20 hours ago. I was living my best life, with no cares in the world. The vibes were right and I was just along for the ride. There was a live band with a saxophone, for crying out loud. But today, as I lay in my bed with half an adderall and two Topo Chicos in my system, I regret it all. I wish I could take it all back. Turn back that clock, fam.

I was easily convinced to do a late dinner last night. This idea popped into my drunken brain at around 3 p.m. Shortly after that late and drunken dinner, I was again easily coerced into going to a bar. Technically, a club. I continued my champagne campaign, and woke up in my friend’s AirBNB bed this morning on South Beach. What is it about weekends that completely ruins our will to live like decent adults? I knew I had work today. I knew I had responsibilities. I even packed a bag in preparation. But this morning, as I stumbled through my friend’s studio apartment rental to throw up yesterday’s alcoholic toxins, I realized that all of that “preparation” was for naught. I wasn’t going to work today, and I knew it.

I called an Uber at 7 a.m. I endured 30 minutes of ABBA blasting through the goddamn speakers before this guy actually dropped me off at my destination. I walked, barefoot, through the lobby of my apartment, avoiding awkward glances on the elevator that I took up one floor. I was in no state to walk up a flight of stairs.

I called into work. I literally could not legally drive a car. I’m 98% positive that I still am not sober enough to do so. I said I had a “stomach bug,” and honestly, that’s not insanely far from the truth.

The weekend was wonderful. I was all smiles and ethanol for days. But I tried to drag it out for longer than I was supposed to. For longer than is allowed. Sundays are for recovery. They’re for casual brunch and guilty drunk-naps at 3 p.m, followed by Scaries and Netflix. They’re not meant for multiple bottles of champagne and shots of Deep Eddy Ruby Red at 10 p.m. I knew this, and yet I still indulged. I deserve this inevitable hangover. I know it’s coming. But for now, I’m still drunk, so I’ll just pretend I won’t be paying for my stupidity in about one hour and twenty-three minutes.

Have a great Monday guys. If you need me, I’ll be scrolling through Twitter and Postmating Shake Shack to my bed.

Image via Shutterstock

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