Thank God this day is over.
I spent the entire time wishing I was dead, or at least curled up in a ball in bed or on the floor. I’m not picky about sleep location when I feel this rotten.
It’s true what they say: the older you get, the longer your hangovers last. They’re more painful, too. They feel like an actual entity has inhabited your insides, like that gross baby alien that takes over people’s bodies in… Alien. Ew, the scene where the guy is on the examining table and everyone is like, “what’s wrong with him? What’s happening??” And then his stomach starts like, bubbling, and he’s freaking out and then SQUELCHSQUIRT, the alien explodes out of him and runs off and everyone just stands there with heir mouths hanging open and the guy is dead and ripped open…
Ew. Yeah. That’s how I felt today.
Agony aside though, it was so worth it – the general consensus amongst us girls who were out last night is, yes, today was ouchy to say the least. But the catchup was LONG overdue and was inevitably going to get messy, so we happily took the knocks and sacrificed the day to the Tylenol and porcelain Gods for the memories we took from it.
No? Just me??
Between fighting back both my rage from listening to Elmo’s Song for the umpteenth time* and my sporadic urges to eat bread and Kraft Dinner, I reveled in the many, many videos and photos I took last night, exactly ZERO of which will be posted anywhere ever. Well, except for the two random Vines I did… what a weird app….
The evidence shows that yes, we Clams can still party like pros.
But we recover like amateurs.
Let’s be sure to work on that, okay?
I miss you, Ladies. Until next time.
*An update, now that my head is clear and sparking from a lovely coffee buzz: I love Elmo. I don’t really have “Elmo rage”. I love Elmo because of how Little Bee reacts to him/her. She is the happiest when s/he is blasting through the speakers. She dances, she laughs, the squeals… Elmo is her best friend. So, I feel bad for saying I have Elmo rage. I don’t. Long live Elmo!