Hey darls. I know my blogging has been slowing recently and my posts are few and far between. Now I know you will have all been distraught in my absence, but don't woz! Allow me to re-introduce myself, another magnificent outpouring of my brain is near. I'm going to have to step my game up if I intend to be a worldwide celeb in the foreseeable future.
Today I am going to talk to you about hangovers. Although the title of this post seems to be referring to piles. Anyway, we've all been there at one point in our life. I attend a hangover every Sunday without fail. It's more of all the things that come with a hangover that make me hate my life and fall into a dark bottomless pit of depression by the time 4pm comes around.
One of my main issues with hangovers is that with me they last all day. The day is almost unbearable and if you hadn't already deduced, I can get quite irritable at the best of times. So when you get in and your parents think that asking you ten thousand questions about your night is a good idea, I can honestly say I contemplate doing a Van Gogh and cutting my ear off so I don't have to listen.
How was last night?
Who were you with?
Where did you go?
What time did you get in?
Where did you stay?
Feeling it today?
Why they feel to ask these questions is beyond me. The worst one is when you sit down to eat your roast dinner and they ask 'You want a glass of wine?' No, I do not want a fucking glass of wine.
I also become a new reality star of the programme 'secret eaters' when a hangover comes out to play. Standard Sunday mornings with me and my friends involve waking up, picking the stray one up, driving to a drive through McDonald's so we don't have to vacate the car and buying a large diet coke, large meal and a cheeseburger each. Then we go back to one of our houses and get in bed and die a slow, painful death. Later on in the day we normally hit up Waga's, Nando's or Dom's. Then pray that our (step)mothers have made a roast or a shepherd's pie. Soon I'm going to look like Gemma from TOWIE when she wore that crop top at Boot Camp.
I'm going to keep this brief. HP's (hangover poo's). Discuss if you please.
Probably the most awful part of the hangover is SND. Sunday night depression. For all you couples out there, you won't appreciate the pain us spinsters and bachelors succumb to when the clock strikes 4pm. The realisation that work is only a matter of hours away. Your internal organs still feel like they are failing and you have to think about 5 days of slave labour that await you. All you want is a hangover cuddle with someone who understands your grief. Spooning with your mates doesn't quite cut it. This is the only time of the week that a boyfriend of some kind is required. But where Match of the Day 2 isn't involved.
So there we have it, a summing up of a hangover. One day, when I'm old and grey I'm going to look back and remember the days I wasted in bed, eating. But until then I'm going to carry on the way I'm going because when I'm hungover I become slightly delirious and everything is just hilarious. For anyone who wishes to know what I'm talking about, just view my videos on Facebook.
