I Did What Last Night? Hangovers With A Side Of Shame.


It has come to my attention that your early twenties are a time to make just about every mistake possible, because who wants to be proud of their decisions and life choices during their formative years? Self-assurance is for the birds people with health insurance and starter homes.

If you’re any good at making mistakes you’ve no doubt made a great friend in cocktails, hard liquor, and a veritable list of craft beers and PBR.  In fact, if you’re great at making mistakes you’ve traded some human friends for these ones.

We live in an era of first-world problems; see student loan and unpaid internships. Social media has each of us bitching and moaning on a daily basis and thanks to Hefe and X Pro II every day is the day before our high school reunion and each day a neuroses dujour.

But that’s what happy hour is for.

Excuse me; happy hours. .

We spend whatever money we didn’t drop on rent, bills, and loans, on drinks and drinks and just when you’re about to make acquaintance with maturity, poise, and restraint, more drinks . I mean isn’t everyone working for the weekend? Are we not to take pop hits of the eighties as mantras?

I assume we were not all pre-med, but we know what happens when you drink a weekend amount of alcohol. You feel like your insides are crying and then you’re actually crying and you had no idea college was so long ago because you certainly didn’t feel like this junior year. But its okay, you tell yourself as you sob into your burger and fries, I’ll feel onehundded again tomorrow and everything will be Beyonce.

But then as soon as this hangover retreats the real threat comes in, not all at once either, in tiny waves of regret. It’s the shameover.

Memories of last night trickle into your consciousness.

I said that to who?

Oh okay I took shots with my restaurant manager, next shift is going to be different.
I tried to dance with the bartender? Ohhh ON the bartender.
My bank statement said I spent 100 dollars on shots?!
Hmm, I tried to be real life friends with that boy I stalk on Instagram.

So I touched that person in public? Oh you took a picture of it, cool so cool.
The wonderful thing about the shameover is endurance; the tortoise to the hangovers hare.  It can last for weeks thanks in part to the slow rate of drunken memory recollection and bystander accounts. Dorothy Parker ensures you, “you were perfectly fine” but you know damn well you were Frodo’s journey from fine.

Oh and we have that wondrous human mind that cannot recall a damn thing about past participles but will miraculously  remind you of the things you said during that Fireball motivated hook-up. Its a good thing you have nothing to do at your internship gig than sit at your computer, look at excel and think about Saturday. You’ll wince in retrospection and the adults around you will ask if you’re okay and you will lie and go on Buzzfeed to assure yourself that everyones doing it. It won’t work and you’ll go ahead and go cry in the bathroom or stress laugh at your desk for a few hours.

The only acceptable remedy for the shameover is grin and bear it until the weekend and go discuss your drunken antics with your dear friends that allowed them to happen in the first place..

Over a drink obviously.



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