Roll over. Turn off alarm clock. Sit up straight. Oh, I actually don’t feel that terrib- OH DEAR GOD I’M GOING TO DIE IN THIS BED. And I have work in less than an hour. How can I go to work, when I have already died?
Stumble to kitchen in search of vital fluids. Realise there is no Fanta. Weep a single tear and settle for orange juice. Decide your stomach is not yet stable enough for solid foods.
(Not to sound like a guy slogan t-shirt, but why am I so dehydrated when I drank so many liquids last night?) Cue cold shower to absorb tiny droplets of salvation into body through osmosis.
Beg boyfriend to drive you to work. He refuses. Drag yourself to the bus stop and await your day of reckoning. Forget momentarily how much your daily commute costs and offer the driver a 20 euro note and a receipt from last night. His eye roll is likely to set you off blubbering again.
Arrive at your destination. Contemplate fleeing the scene before you surrender and enter the world of responsibility. Welcome to the dreaded work hangover! Let the five stages commence:
If I tell myself I’m not that hungover, then I’ll be fine. I’m not going to get sick. I don’t even feel sick. I’m fine. Great, even.
I hate everyone for buying tequila. I hate tequila for even existing. I hate myself.
Please God if you just let me get through this day, I’ll never drink again.
The world is so bleak and I don’t have any friends and sometimes I don’t even understand life and why am I so ugly without makeup?
It’s ok. I’m going to get a Chinese.
While you have been suffering in silence with your mental state, you hope that no-one has noticed you bumping into the counter. Again. Did it move or something?!
Eat everything in sight. With extra bread. Washed down with more Fanta. Gourmet meal indeed.
After a day of the clock occasionally stalling for minutes on end, quitting time rolls around and you are free to be released into the outside world. Feel intensely distressed at the thoughts of leaving present human company to return to an empty house.
Ring all friends within a 20-mile radius and learn that they are all otherwise occupied. Realise you’ll have to watch X Factor alone. Weep. Watch X Factor alone. Weep profusely and consider your own singing career.
Feast on a banquet of Hillbilly’s chicken. Regret not getting the Chinese. Further weeping.
When you’re so tired you start calling it BaceFook, you realise it’s time to curl up into the foetal position and call it a day. Mentally prepare for a sprightly morning only to be greeted with the two-day hangover. Repeat.