Nobody ever intends to be hungover in work; you tell yourself you’re meeting your mates for a bite to eat and maybe a small glass of wine. You even drive because you want to be home by half 10 at the latest – you’ve got work tomorrow, after all.
Four hours, two bottles of wine and some shots of something you vaguely remember as sambuca later, you’re spinning round the pole in Popworld, and your car’s been lashed in the nearest moody car park where it will remain. Indefinitely.
The next day is a special kind of hell that we’ve all lived through at some point. Here’s a break down of the five stages…
Stage One: Denial
7.45am: You wake up sprawled across the bed. For a few blissful minutes you forget you’ve been out the night before, until you realise you’re still wearing last night’s top… but there’s a pint of water near the bed so that’s a good sign.
Then the dry mouth kicks in. You take a swig of water from the glass. It turns out to be vodka. Oh well, despite that minor setback you actually feel pretty fresh.
Really fresh actually.
You lash Spotify on while you brush your teeth; smiling at yourself in the mirror as you remember how hilarious you were last night. And sexy. Life is sound, better than sound actually; life is dead good.
Stage Two: Anger
10am: You’ve come to the horrible realisation that you were still drunk this morning. Your hangover has hit you like a bag of shit and you’re acutely aware of how much you hate people. And noise and light and not being horizontal.
You look down at your outfit; which smells like hangover because alcohol is leaking from every one of your pores. What the fuck are you wearing? You’re dressed like the sad human punchline of the terrible joke that is your life.
Why didn’t you just go home? Why did you do this to yourself. Why did your friends let you get those shots. You hate everything and everyone, particularly yourself.
Stage Three: Bargaining
12.30pm: You would literally sell your nan for a Maccies.
Not figuratively. Literally. You DGAF you’d sell her without a second thought.
You’ve spent the last two hours trying to figure out a way to get yourself sent home without anyone suspecting you went out last night. Which is ridiculous because half the office heard you vomiting loudly in the toilet about an hour ago, and the other half has had to listen to you groaning under your breath since 10am.
The two paracetamol you necked earlier have done absolutely nothing to tame the second heartbeat in your head and you’ve vowed to never, ever drink on a school night again.
Stage Four: Depression
2pm: You made the horrible decision to spend your dinner going through your phone to see the damage from last night and now you’re genuinely hoping the building catches fire with you in it to put you out of your misery.
Your camera roll is full of toilet selfies that are only fit to line the walls of hell. Why did you text the Freak Me Baby song lyrics to your ex? What were those 12 Snapchats you sent to the fitty you fancy of? And why haven’t they been mentioned them since?
The 4000 calories of carbs you inhaled for Lunch have only added to your general state of tiredness and self-loathing. Everything is awful and it’ll probably never be OK again.
Stage Five: Acceptance
3.30pm: This is it. This is game over.
There’s no getting out of it, you’re stuck here until half 5. You’ve made such a holy show of yourself you know you can never leave the house again… which is absolutely fine because you plan to get into bed as soon as you get home and never leave.
You’ve already pre-ordered a Pizza to arrive at your house when you get home, because food is your only friend now. You’re clock watching so hard you’re sure the minutes have started going backwards.
You know you’ll never, ever do this to yourself again. Until next time… obviously.