An Embarassingly Accurate Timeline Of The Morning After

Morning after

[Wake up]

7:02 a.m.
What. the. fuck. Where are you? Are you dead? Why is your head no longer attached to your body? Why is it pounding and searing in agony? You try to pry your eyes open but they’re glued shut. You feel someone next to you and have a fuzzy memory of the guy you went home with last night. Jack? Jason? Who cares. You try to swallow some spit and pass back out.

7:23 a.m.
His hand is draped haphazardly over your waist. You try to lift it but that only makes him tighten his grip. The smell of your alcohol-sweat is not mixing nicely and all you want to do is drink water straight out of the faucet. For now, you’re stuck in his man-trap with nothing to do but close your eyes. You pray for it all to be over soon.

7:58 a.m.
Now you can tell he’s awake, which was probably your bad, because once you get it in your head that you are uncomfortable, it is impossible not to move. He’s rubbing your back in small circles. Why he thinks that feels good right now is beyond you. Do you say something? Do you make up an urgent excuse such as, “my friend needs her car and her car is outside and I need to go and I need to go now?” Shit, you walked here. You stare at the wall in a state of fuming agony as you try to figure out a way to leave.

8:06 a.m.
After wiggling, he finally gets the hint and releases you from his beefy, sweaty grasp. Which leads to the next predicament: you either have to pretend you’re falling back asleep or make moves out the door. He turns to you and gazes into your eyes. It looks like he wants to have a serious conversation. Now? You want to do this now? You can’t. Because if you move, there’s a 99 percent chance that you’ll vom. And if you vom there’s no chance that you two will date so you just close your eyes.

8:36 a.m.
After trying, and failing to fall back asleep, you officially decide that you need to get out. Screw cuddling. Screw his boyfriend potential. All you want is freedom. You’re deathly afraid to open your mouth and tell him, however, because you haven’t had water in twelve hours and you’re pretty sure that you might actually die from dehydration. You’re really fucking wishing your friend would urgently call you to rescue her from God knows what, so you don’t have to be rude about leaving.

8:47 a.m.
As the hangover starts arriving, you decide “to hell” with being polite. You slowly begin gathering your belongings. How the fuck did your sock get across the room? Where the hell is the other one? As you’re creeping around, he starts to grumble something in his sleep. Or at least you think he’s asleep. You lean forward to look at him and see if his eyes are open.

8:53 a.m.
Wait. No. He’s not asleep. And now you look like a creep for standing in the middle of the room staring at him. You realize that he was asking “what the fuck you’re doing.” Your heart clenches as swivel on your one-socked foot to face him. Busted. You attempt a smile, but your mouth is so dry it turns out creepy so you wipe it from your face and declare, “I’m just not feeling well.”

8:55 a.m.
He asks if you need help or a ride home. When you say “no” he asks if you want something else. If he flirting right now? Really? You want to say no but he’s actually really hot now that you got a good look at him…

9:12 a.m.
You start the search for your clothes all over again after an awkward dose of hungover morning sex. When he once again offers you a ride, you thank him kindly, but assure him your friend is coming soon. He mumbles something about texting you later and rolls back over in bed. You trudge out of his room, saluting the body asleep on the couch, and swing open the door only to shade your eyes from the ghastly sun and find that the birds everywhere are mocking you.

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All things I like to do are made better with wine. I wish I could create a realistic resume of actual experiences I've had throughout my drunken, unpredictable life. If I could, my special skills would include: going out broke and coming back drunk, enduring conversations with boys who don't understand my vocabulary, chugging coffee like it's water, and breaking-and-entering past party houses to find my lost shit.

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