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.

Reality Check

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Ok… enough wallowing already. It’s pathetic and I pride myself on being a strong, confident woman.  There’s no glory in looking sad and tired… and the last thing I want him to feel, is sorry for me. I have a lot to be proud of, so it’s time to turn the page and breathe through the heartache.

I’m throwing verbal temper tantrums and I’m packing around an outrageous set of new 36 G’s that aren’t even a week old. For hell’s sake, it’s time I snapped out of it. My poor ex is here visiting this week and has been a superdad, but he has the worst time being in the room with my new purchase. He’s an honorable, respectable married man, but he’s human and they’re hard to ignore. I need to appreciate it for the compliment it is, because I’ve been feeling awfully bad for myself on the heels of rapid rejection.

I hate the power my heart has over me and I hate that I want him as much as I do. I hate how bad I feel because of him and I accept the defeat of it all, but my heart is still reeling. I cannot believe he could care so little about hurting me, but hey… my not believing it hasn’t changed a thing, and I’ve been begging him for clarification, so I suppose I should be grateful?

The bottom line is, I don’t ever want to know what it is to fuck someone on Monday and be out meeting someone else later that week. I don’t ever want to have that little respect for myself or the person I’m intimate with. I fell in love with him. I always do and I won’t ever apologize for it. When you’re the one I adore, you feel it in every part of your life. I don’t do anything half-assed and I certainly deserve the same or a modicum of respect and consideration.

If he was interested in meeting someone else, I don’t want him. No amount of chemistry makes that attractive and I quit men who made me feel bad about myself a long time ago.

Good sex messes with your head and great sex usually breaks your heart. This comes as no surprise, as disappointed and whiny as I’ve been.

He’s incredible. That’s why I’m so miserable. He’s also a dick. I’m always amazed at how they just seem to name themselves. I should have paid more attention to when he went from being the Holy Grail to Mr. Incredicock.

I’ve donated my rose colored glasses to charity and have unpacked the habits that heal me in the best ways. My knitting. My books. My brilliant Not-so-little-Red. My sweet little Dumpling. Bubbles with Miss Fancy. Shenanigans on Friday night with Miss Lovely.

I go all in because I don’t know any other way. I would honestly be bored by less passion and someday, somewhere, he’s going to deserve it.

Just not today.