Hangover Musings

I made out with a boy last night, and it was a really big deal because it was someone very special that had been wandering through my thoughts for an exceptionally long time. It was a moment I had imagined in a lot of different scenarios at a lot of different times.

Then it happened. And it was beautiful. But the most insane part is how I literally could not care less about it today. It doesn’t phase me. I don’t feel happy or excited or any emotion at all.

And it’s all because I’m so fucking hungover, and what I really cared about today was my coffee, my Chinese food, and getting home to my sweats.

I cared about the wet piece of paper towel that was stuck to my finger. “Is that skin?” I asked myself in horror, peeling it back, terrified. No, it was just paper towel. It happened twice today, and my “Ew, is that skin?” thought process was the exact same both times.

I thought about my Halloween costume and how much I hated Halloween. I thought about why I had started to hate Halloween and never reached an answer. I thought about whether or not I should do a funny costume or a hot costume or find a way to incorporate both.

I did not think about this boy. I didn’t even think about work, which, in all honesty, has been my dominating thought for the past month. I had become a new person overnight. I didn’t give a shit about anything other than finding a spare five minutes where I could hide out somewhere and close my eyes.

I had become hungover.

In university you’d wake up and throw up and then you’d creep Facebook and watch movies and then DO IT ALL OVER AGAIN THAT NIGHT. Your thought processes didn’t change. You didn’t stop being obsessed with that guy, wondering who that Michelle girl was who just tagged him in a photo. Being hungover didn’t fundamentally change you as a human being. It simply slowed you down during the day and, somehow, made you party even harder the next night.

Now? Now it actually makes you forget how to exist. You stumble through the day and hope you don’t have anything stuck in your teeth because can’t be bothered checking. You have no emotion and feel no emotion and you’re just kind of there.

So either, this guy I just kissed isn’t sticking around very long and this is my body’s way of protecting my heart by forcing me to not give a shit. Or – and more likely – this is simply my body’s way of telling me to drink more water and less Cava, a lesson it’s tried to teach me many times over.

You know what they say: 943rd time’s a charm.

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