𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐥𝐲 𝐄𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐝

𝟎𝟐.

𝟎𝟐.

𝑳𝒖𝒄𝒚

 𝑰 𝑹𝑬𝑮𝑹𝑬𝑻𝑻𝑬𝑫 𝑬𝑽𝑬𝑹𝒀𝑻𝑯𝑰𝑵𝑮.

               Not just the fifth pint - that was bad enough - but the ill-advised tequila shot that, in the moment, had seemed like a stroke of genius but now felt like a personal attack on my internal organs. And let's not even get started on the greasy kebab that had seemed essential at 1 a.m., but now sat in my stomach like a ticking time bomb of bad decisions.

But above all, I regretted applying for this ridiculous, overly vague job. My "great escape," my chance to leap into something shiny and new, now seemed like a cosmic joke.

What on earth had possessed me?

And here I was, sitting on what had to be the most uncomfortable plastic chair in the known universe. It was like whoever designed it had a personal vendetta against people with backs. I shifted for what felt like the hundredth time, and my spine made a sound like a creaky door hinge.

Lovely.

My head throbbed like a nightclub had set up shop inside my skull, and my stomach was still waging a silent protest against the aforementioned kebab. All in all, I felt like a walking public service announcement for bad life choices.

I pressed my fingers to my temples, as if somehow massaging my brain would undo the damage. It didn't.

Never. Again.

This wasn't just a hangover; this was some sort of karmic retribution for every bad decision I'd made in the last twelve hours. I half-expected the universe to smite me on the spot, just to complete the punishment package.

The room I was stuck in was disturbingly sterile, like someone had vacuumed out any hint of personality and replaced it with a clinical, soul-sucking void. It had the charm of a government office mixed with the ambience of a dentist's waiting room - the kind of place where hope goes to die.

There was a lone plastic plant in the corner, a sad little thing covered in so much dust it looked like it had been abandoned in the '90s and was just waiting for the sweet release of death. I couldn't help but sympathize. We were both barely holding it together.

There there was the clock. Oh, the clock. Each tick felt like a tiny hammer chipping away at what was left of my will to live.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

A personal vendetta against my fragile, hungover state.

I checked the time. Again. Thirty-five minutes late and counting. The anxiety churned in my stomach, competing for attention with the kebab from hell.