The Worst Hangover, Ever.

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Miss Lovely and I have destroyed ourselves.

Both of us were drinking on broken hearts and empty stomachs and dear GOD we knew it was a bad idea. Sometimes you have to flood him out… or at least come home with a phone full of strange boys dying for a date.

For the record, the hangover simply offers hours of empty suffering in which to drown in that same heartache. It doesn’t make it go away and the worst part?

Finding those drunk texts you sent him. They’re never good. Drunk text me is either horny and begging or writing angry novels. She has no chill. By the grace of God, I didn’t send any this weekend.

We closed the bar Friday, and went to brunch to drink mimosas to dull the slight hangovers we had on Saturday morning.

Then closed the bar on Saturday night.

To put it mildly, I can feel every miserable inch of my cold, shaking, sweating body. The industrial surgical bra and elastic seat belt I have to wear strapped around the top of my chest is a whole new level of torture this morning. Sleep would be amazing, but the alcohol has metabolized like crack and I’m awake and listening to the deafening thud of my heart pound, while my brain cries. Miserable wanting Incredicock and feeling like a wet sack of garbage.

Not at all better and in fact… FAR WORSE. He will feel fine today and I will be curled into the fetal position and bargaining with God.

Miss Lovely and I weighed the options of calling Dr. Miles. He’d come with IV’s and banana bags… but I’d probably be molested by him and I just couldn’t do it. It’s nice to have the shoe on the other foot when I’ve been the one begging, but he’s just plain nasty with a penchant for licking assholes. Ya know, I’m not judging, but I’m also not really interested in having my asshole licked. I just want my head to stop pounding and my heart to stop aching for something I can’t have. Having what I want thrown at me is extremely frustrating when it’s coming from the wrong guy.

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And so I made my whole body feel like my heart does. Broken.

My eyes feel like they’ve been overinflated and my stomach feels like I’ve been poisoned. There really aren’t words to describe the pounding in my head.

I called my boss last night and gave a full confession that I was in the midst of surviving the worst hangover of my life and would not be worth a damn today. She was excited to hear I had fun and told me to drink lots of water.

I can’t eat or drink a thing… and I would cry but my body is devoid of enough hydration to make tears.

A bubble bath and a glass of Pedialyte on ice. A text to the one I’m suffering over because I’m a glutton for punishment. A day to climb back in bed and let myself really feel the weight of self harm. I’m better than this and I need to gracefully pick myself up, dust myself off and let it go.

Today.

Miles To Go

I know the rules and how to play the game and win. It’s not that I’m defective. I choose to be single. I know that I’m worth far more than the standard offer.

PS. The standard offer is a dick pic and an invitation to join his frequent flier club.

Hard pass… also you’re lucky if he can get hard without assistance.

This shit is a struggle, y’all. I am not exaggerating when I say that I’ve done a 180 in the last 24 hours and am drowning in hate where inspiration used to threaten to swallow me, whole.

I feel like someone beat me with a bat, then shit in my hands. I’m not just devastated, I’m broken and my hands are full of shit.

So I did what we all do, and unearthed the boys I’ve sent to Not Yet Island. I gave away the ringtone that used to make me wet from wanting him. I’m hateful on a scary level. I’m probably going to hurt some poor innocent Tinder boy.

Dr. Miles is glad to drive 4 hours for a checkup. Any time of the day, any day of the week… I can order up a penis just as easily as a pizza. I can be picky.

I had the sort of day that calls for calories and orgasms. I had to look at his smug face all day and listen to his stupid phone vibrate. Knowing he’s sitting around getting hot and bothered from exciting text messages does nothing to help me pump my brakes. Not only do I hate him, I’d like to hate fuck him out of my system. Today.

Hello Miles, and all the bad things you’ve expressed a direct interest in doing to me. Today is your day. Today you get to text me exactly when I want you to, because I’ve done everything correctly and you are THIRSTY. I know if I text him, he’ll respond instantly, and he’s a doctor, for Christ’s sake. I was getting in the shower one morning when a text from him came chiming in.

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I don’t respond to him. It does not slow him down. I’m just completely burned out on guys who think their dick is more important than their character.

So I texted my best friend… and we had dinner and bubbles without too many tears.

I really have grown up and I’m not looking for a dozen orgasms because I can get them on my own if I want them badly enough. I don’t, for what it’s worth. I’m so much more than a receptacle and I’d rather die lonely than settle for a man who didn’t burn for me.

He’s just not good enough and that breaks my heart wide open because I thought he was. Just when I think I’m doing the right thing, on the right path or operating with the best of intentions… I find myself here.

Heartbroken.

Disillusioned.

Devastated.

but smarter, wiser and a little bit funnier.

I knew the last time I fucked him that it was the last time. I knew it was temporary because I avoided kissing him after realizing how much I enjoyed doing so. The red flags were all there… I just wanted so badly to love him.

Regardless of desire, life hands you who you are and it turns out that the same goes for the people you want.