She means it this time. (Kind of.)
I am hanging. Beyond hanging. It’s Tuesday as I write, but Sunday night’s eyeliner is still under my eyelids and my hair looks like you might find some animals nesting in it somewhere if you were to look closely. I have one of those hangovers where I honestly hate myself.
I spent most of yesterday in bed, refusing to open or reply to messages or Snapchats and trying to plan how I can go teetotal and still have a social life. I even considered signing myself up to a half marathon until I remembered I’m an unfit mess who can’t run up the stairs never mind 21km. There were a good four hours yesterday where I genuinely believed I’d been spiked because there’s no possible way I could have been in THAT STATE that quickly until I remembered I hadn’t eaten before I left, had been out the two nights before and hadn’t drank any water in about three days.
I left my gaff yesterday to go to the drive-thru only to find my heels on my welcome mat at my front door alongside some regurgitated whatever it was that my huns force-fed me in the taxi home. Wrote off is an understatement, and it’s days like today that I sit back and wonder is it really worth it?
How many skirts from Topshop could I have bought with that €150 that came out of my nose on the way home? How many days is it going to take for all the alcohol to come out of my body via whiteheads on my chin? When am I going to be able to look at my sent items without my soul leaving my body? The Hangxiety is real; I’m on my second litre of water and still don’t feel the better for it.
To cheer myself up and make myself feel slightly human again I’m about to embark on my weekly pilgrimage to the Spar for lunch where I plan to inhale a chicken fillet roll drowning in taco sauce, at least two packets of Meanies and a can of Coke. Then when I get home I’m going to lie in a ball on my sofa in absolute agony complaining about the bloat I have from eating the white baguette that will have me looking pregnant until at least Thursday. And that’s when you really have to wonder…when will I learn?
I once read somewhere that once in your life you should go on the dry for a year and after waking up after that weekend with a million bruises, the Jaeger cramps and no dignity at all lef, I’ve decided I’m going to give it a go… for a couple of months anyway with the exception of EP and a wedding I have in September.
It may just be the fear talking today and I may be back on the cans by Friday, but I need to give my little body a break. And my bank account; it’s not just the drink, it’s the €25 worth of Chinese food ordered the next day that I don’t even eat, too.
I could have bought a gaff at this stage with all the funds I’ve spent on my liquid diet, so while I doubt I’ll stick to two months, you can’t blame a Hun for trying. And if you see me tweeting that I spent the morning calling God on the big white telephone, feel free to remind me that I swore I was off it, just to make me feel a lil bit worse. Will keep yiz posted, Huns.