The Disappointment
You finally decide to get out of bed and make the most of the day. After all, how many times in a week can you be late for work? As you throw your soiled sheets aside, you realise that your shirt is crusted with dry vomit. Obviously a nice little leftover from the night before. "Aww fuck..." you whisper, pulling the shirt over your head and tossing it into an ever-growing pile of dirty laundry.
As you stand up, waves of nausea hit you like a ship in a storm. You're going to puke, wether you like it or not. Your eyes dart around the room, searching desperately for a vomit receptacle. A fast food paper bag catches your eye. You snatch it up, automatically heaving it full of a boozy stomach cocktail. You collapse to your knees, overwhelmed by your sickness, still vomiting into the brown paper bag. The bottom of the bag gives way, splattering the remnants of your last meal and whatever the fuck you drank last all over your bedroom floor. "Aw, for fuck's sake..." you groan, still gagging on the last few chunks of your throw-up.
Feeling drained and a little bit shaky, you slowly work your way back to your feet. It must have been a great night last night, but you can be fucked if you can remember it at all. You then notice that your morning wood is standing to attention, despite your staggered condition. Perhaps you should relieve yourself with a quick morning spell... Maybe you'd feel better afterwards!
Your thoughts are shattered by the buzzing of your mobile phone. You instinctively grab it up to answer it. Shit, it's your manager, surely calling to see why you're still not at work. You ignore the call and toss your phone aside. Your stomach still reels from the hangover. Hair of the dog will fix it. "Maybe I need a breakfast beer..." you mutter, looking at the many empty beer bottles scattered across the bedroom floor. "Or maybe I just need to eat." Either way, you still have to go to work.
As you stand up, waves of nausea hit you like a ship in a storm. You're going to puke, wether you like it or not. Your eyes dart around the room, searching desperately for a vomit receptacle. A fast food paper bag catches your eye. You snatch it up, automatically heaving it full of a boozy stomach cocktail. You collapse to your knees, overwhelmed by your sickness, still vomiting into the brown paper bag. The bottom of the bag gives way, splattering the remnants of your last meal and whatever the fuck you drank last all over your bedroom floor. "Aw, for fuck's sake..." you groan, still gagging on the last few chunks of your throw-up.
Feeling drained and a little bit shaky, you slowly work your way back to your feet. It must have been a great night last night, but you can be fucked if you can remember it at all. You then notice that your morning wood is standing to attention, despite your staggered condition. Perhaps you should relieve yourself with a quick morning spell... Maybe you'd feel better afterwards!
Your thoughts are shattered by the buzzing of your mobile phone. You instinctively grab it up to answer it. Shit, it's your manager, surely calling to see why you're still not at work. You ignore the call and toss your phone aside. Your stomach still reels from the hangover. Hair of the dog will fix it. "Maybe I need a breakfast beer..." you mutter, looking at the many empty beer bottles scattered across the bedroom floor. "Or maybe I just need to eat." Either way, you still have to go to work.