Hazardous

IV. What a Hangover

|  Steph  |

My alarm plays, over and over in my ear. My whole body feels weird as I reach over to turn it off. It almost feels like rubber... not in a painful way, but almost like it feels unused and weak.

Yet another of ten thousand signs that I've been missing some of my weekly workouts and that my gym membership is going to waste...

I sit up, my head ringing on my ears and my temples pounding. Ugh. What a nasty bitch of a hangover. And those dreams... what the fuck were those dreams? They were so real and lucid, it was like they were actually happening.

I push my feet off the side of my bed, suddenly remembering that I have a meeting about a website imagery and mural design with a couple new clients today. Shit. I feel like hell, which means I probably look the part, too. Fan-fucking-tastic.

I force myself to stand on my feet with a groan, the world twirling and spinning around me as my aching brain struggles to tell left from right and up from down.

I lurch across my apartment over to my bathroom, looking at my face in my mirror. I look like death, and that's putting it lightly.

It's not like I even drank that much last night... but what if I drank so much that I forgot how much I actually drank? That would explain why this hangover is so unusually awful. It's like my brain isn't working correctly... my neurons aren't firing right or something. Because all I can think about is...

Food. Yes. Food. I'm so hungry. I don't think I've ever craved food, literally any food, so badly in my life.

I rush out of the bathroom in search of something to eat, sifting through my small pantry for anything that hasn't passed its expiration date.

Halfway through eating a box of granola bars, the only part of my brain that still contains rational thought tells me that I need to get ready for this meeting and not succumb to these random food cravings.

I throe the box down and walk back into the bathroom, chewing quickly and attempting to swallow everything in my mouth. I wash my face off, brush my teeth, ridding my mouth of any residue of leftover food, and try to brush through my mess of tangled bed hair.

I run back into my bedroom, going to my closet, looking for a suitable outfit. Eventually, I find a nicer looking flannel and put it on with a black, however formal tank top and skinny jeans. It'll have to do for now.

I look over at my digital clock on my nightstand. It reads 8:00. Shit. Double shit. My meeting is at 9, and the place I'm meeting my clients at is almost an hour from my apartment, with moderate traffic. There's no telling how the roads are gonna look today.

I sprint back into the bathroom, and curl my eyelashes quickly, putting my mascara in as fast as I can without smearing it all over my eyelids and under eyes. I settle for a little blush, white eyeshadow in the corners of my eyes, and use my crappy liquid eyeliner to make a small wing on the very edge of my eye. Hopefully, that's enough to mask the most of my hangover.

I grab the bag I prepared yesterday morning, (in case an event like this were to occur) packed in advance with everything I need for the meeting, and I rush out the door, locking it behind me.

I get down my car as fast as my legs can take me, and I'm off.

Damn, what a hangover.

.  .  .

I look down at my phone. Luckily, traffic wasn't the worst I've had LA throw at me before, so I was able to get there 10 minutes before out meeting time.