Surreal Perfection (Camren)

Ch 3

"...shit. Camila?"

Well, that sounds pretty damn bang on to what I'm feeling right now.

My drunk fingers somehow find a way to end the call, and I turn my phone off before Lauren can call back.

Knowing her, she will. Knowing her, this'll bother the hell out of her.

And the knowledge that she'll go straight to my voicemail when she does call back, makes me a little bit more satisfied than I know it should. Take that.

By this point, the vodka vodkas aren't really doing anything anymore, and I decide to move on to Normani's housewarming gift.

Mr. Patron, it's just you and me tonight.

For a second, I question what my friends are trying to tell me by giving me alcohol to warm my house. I shrug, because it's doing a pretty good job of warming my cold fucking heart right now.

For some reason, I decide that Lauren could probably use a bit of warming up too, and I pour a shot over my innocent phone.

I realize immediately, that I've passed a point of drunkenness that I'm now hurting inanimate objects.

I try to wipe my phone dry as well as I could, but I refuse to turn it on to check that I haven't killed it. Because Lauren deserves to get my damn voicemail when she calls.

Then I start to wonder whether she would call or not, and now I won't be able to tell, because she could just as easily call, and not leave a stupid voicemail.

At least, if I had left my phone on, I could've just ignored it, and be satisfied with the fact that she did actually call.

Fuck.

I take another swig from the awkwardly shaped Tequila bottle. What the hell; for something so expensive, they sure make it difficult to binge on. But that's okay, because I forgive you, Tequila.

See, I am capable of forgiveness, despite what Lauren says.

As soon as I swallow the burning in my throat, it makes its way back out the same way it went down.

I run to the sink, and almost miss, but by some miracle, I manage to projectile vomit into the basin.

My stomach twists and contracts as I puke my guts out. My mouth tastes like expensive liquor and bile, and my vision blurs with the tears that are falling down my face.

I catch a glimpse of my distorted reflection on the shiny metal of the sink, and it makes me laugh, because it reminds of me a very similar night over a year ago where I went on a little bender with Dinah after Lauren first left, and I had sworn that I was never drinking again.

Wow.

This is so pathetic, it's almost kinda funny.

I feel a little bit relieved that I can still find humour in my little moment of angst, and I tell myself that I'm okay.

I'm going to call this a relapse, and write about it in my journal, and five years from now, when I'm over it, and I'm a well-adjusted adult, I'm going to laugh at how emo I was over my ex.

Yes, that's a good plan, Camila. 

I draw the line now at speaking to myself in the third person, and run the water and the garburator so I can get rid of the evidence.

I already feel the hangover brewing, and I realize that I'm terrible at drinking.

This is a reminder of why I don't go out, and I try to mentally stamp this moment in my head, so that I'll hopefully remember this as a cautionary tale, or maybe even a 'this one time, when I drunk-dialled my ex' type of story around the campfire.