You wake up and immediately realize that you have to puke. Upon sitting up in bed you also realize that you have no idea where the bathroom is in this dump of an apartment. Stumbling and landing on what you could only guess is a fork you push aside the ratty sheet separating what’s-his-name’s living room from his bedroom.
There is light streaming through a curtain-less window, the glare making it harder to find the bathroom door. After you find it you realize that it doesn’t close all the way, but that’s fine since you don’t really have more than half a second before you are spewing green bile into the dirty toilet. You heave until your stomach is aching and empty, finishing it up by washing your mouth out with the burning hot water that streams from the tap over the sink.
You look in the mirror at your mascara streaked face, your contacts dried to your retinas and one lone earring swinging from your right lobe. The words ‘shots’, ‘tequila’, ‘lap dance’, and ‘cocaine’ scream from your brain as you find a way to tie your hair up above your head with a rubber band you find coiled around the drain. You are in your bra and jeans, which you hadn’t noticed before and don’t really take much notice to now. Storming through the living room you grab for your shirt in his dim bedroom, locating your boots underneath his overflowing desk. You glance at the male body strewn across the bed, wondering if you will remember what his face looks like tomorrow, and hoping that you didn’t do more than just make out. Your stomach heaves and you turn to go, silently praying that your cell phone is in you bag and not on that floor amongst the debris. Luckily your bag and your phone are on the couch and you are just opening the door to leave as you notice a mouse run across the wall by the television.
You put your shirt on in the hall and jump around trying to get your feet into your boots as you rush down the stairs, hoping that you won’t puke in the street. It is blazing hot outside and you are totally over dressed, wishing that the one thing you had put into your ‘going out’ bag had been your sunglasses.
Walking down Christopher Street you catch a glimpse of yourself in a diner window, and you notice that you actually look quite skinny. You pause for a minute in the triumph of this fact, completely ignoring the family staring at your from inside, paused over their plates of Eggs Benedict and home fries. You jump into a deli and get a green tea and an apple, craving for some toast or a greasy egg sandwich to sop up the alcohol in your belly, but deterred by the idea of your skinny self. You promise yourself you will eat healthy all day today. From your bag you fish out your metro-card, deciding that maybe you don’t even have to hit the gym before heading down to visit your parents. You hug your waist and wonder how much weight you could have lost in one night. You smile despite that spinning in your brain and the bruise you just noticed on your shoulder.
There is light streaming through a curtain-less window, the glare making it harder to find the bathroom door. After you find it you realize that it doesn’t close all the way, but that’s fine since you don’t really have more than half a second before you are spewing green bile into the dirty toilet. You heave until your stomach is aching and empty, finishing it up by washing your mouth out with the burning hot water that streams from the tap over the sink.
You look in the mirror at your mascara streaked face, your contacts dried to your retinas and one lone earring swinging from your right lobe. The words ‘shots’, ‘tequila’, ‘lap dance’, and ‘cocaine’ scream from your brain as you find a way to tie your hair up above your head with a rubber band you find coiled around the drain. You are in your bra and jeans, which you hadn’t noticed before and don’t really take much notice to now. Storming through the living room you grab for your shirt in his dim bedroom, locating your boots underneath his overflowing desk. You glance at the male body strewn across the bed, wondering if you will remember what his face looks like tomorrow, and hoping that you didn’t do more than just make out. Your stomach heaves and you turn to go, silently praying that your cell phone is in you bag and not on that floor amongst the debris. Luckily your bag and your phone are on the couch and you are just opening the door to leave as you notice a mouse run across the wall by the television.
You put your shirt on in the hall and jump around trying to get your feet into your boots as you rush down the stairs, hoping that you won’t puke in the street. It is blazing hot outside and you are totally over dressed, wishing that the one thing you had put into your ‘going out’ bag had been your sunglasses.
Walking down Christopher Street you catch a glimpse of yourself in a diner window, and you notice that you actually look quite skinny. You pause for a minute in the triumph of this fact, completely ignoring the family staring at your from inside, paused over their plates of Eggs Benedict and home fries. You jump into a deli and get a green tea and an apple, craving for some toast or a greasy egg sandwich to sop up the alcohol in your belly, but deterred by the idea of your skinny self. You promise yourself you will eat healthy all day today. From your bag you fish out your metro-card, deciding that maybe you don’t even have to hit the gym before heading down to visit your parents. You hug your waist and wonder how much weight you could have lost in one night. You smile despite that spinning in your brain and the bruise you just noticed on your shoulder.
