I wake up to the muffled sound of Old Dominion playing from my kitchen, and I feel like I just got thrown in the deep end of freezing cold water. Disoriented and confused, my hands begin searching for my phone as my mind races looking for answers for what happened last night. I’ve seen this movie one too many times. After finding a cracked phone with four emails from Bank of America, seventy-seven GroupMe notifications, and a slew of Snapchat “is-typings,” I begin to wallow in self-pity. What do I remember last? Okay, somebody was taking lines in my bathroom, something about a girl calling someone an asshole, and peeing in the street. It’s 12:13 PM on Sunday, and I’m still drunk, but I know what’s coming. I itch my balls and trip over my once white Nikes that look like they underwent a reverse-Michael Jackson-color-transition. I begin walking to the kitchen before looking down and inexplicably realizing that for some reason, I have a half-chub, so I go back to my room and throw on a tee-shirt as a half-assed attempt to hide it from my roommates.
I’m met by my roommate ripping a chop and watching Sportscenter, “duuuuude, you owe our neighbor a huge apology for her cat.” Since when did our neighbor get a fucking cat? “Haha…why” I mutter as I fill up a dirty glass with lukewarm sink water that I’m going to throw up in my mouth in thirty seconds. Between coughs, he replies, “I have no idea, but I got a text from her this morning saying that you’re not allowed near her cat ever again.” I open my phone and start accessing the damage. My boy sent me a video of our other friend passed out and peeing his pants with a half-eaten 7/11 hot dog in his mouth, and for a moment, I find solace in the fact that I’m not as down bad as he is. I go back into my room and immediately fire up PornHub. It’s essential that I get all this toxic cum out of my body before my panic attacks begin.
It’s almost 1:15 PM now, and I’m out of clean tee-shirts. I feel lightheaded as I try to resurrect a puff bar that I know for sure I killed last night. I get three burnt rips out of the device I paid thirteen dollars for that never once tasted like “banana ice,” and I open my Bank of America app. -$72.89. How the fuck does that even happen? Thirty seconds of research will tell me that I got hit with multiple fees for going further than ten dollars into debt, and I begin plotting hypothetical scenarios where I can find the CEO of Bank of America, befriend him, and force him to say racial slurs at gun-point, so I cancel the whole bank on Twitter. After feeling bad for myself for ten minutes, I force my fingers to open Canvas. I’m confident that whatever I find on there will elicit my first panic attack of the day, and boy, oh boy am I right. I clutch my chest as my mind has convinced itself that my heart is at 240 BPMs, and I start dry-heaving over the toilet. As I dig myself deeper and deeper into a hole of hopelessness, I open up Tik Tok so SOMETHING can take my mind off of the fact that I believe myself to be dying. After a while, I find myself down a rabbit hole with this guy
and I begin to have serious self-reflection on all the mistakes I’ve made in life.
2:30 PM, and all I’ve done today is watched porn and thrown my clothes into the dryer. As I open my laptop to start scanning for Quizlets that will help me cheat on this Peruvian Architecture and Culture quiz worth fifteen percent of my grade, I begin to feel my hands getting clammy. For no reason whatsoever, I’m sweating profusely, so I go back into my kitchen and start waterboarding myself with a Brita that I don’t have the strength to refill. I’m usually very adamant about refilling our Brita, but it’s times like these where I don’t care that I look more hypocritical than Hillary Clinton’s Twitter account; sometimes you just have to be a selfish piece of shit.
When I find a Quizlet that was created three years ago by duck___cyclones1034, I could cry. I don’t know who duck___cyclones1034 is, but they deserve everything good that this world has to offer. After submitting a quiz that should have taken me an hour to complete in ten minutes, I open up Snapchat to multiple videos of me trying to steal a cat. Oh fuck. I also see myself on several girl’s Snapchat stories dancing like an autistic orangutan hopped up on meth, and when I find a picture of myself wearing some girl’s pink cowboy hat, I start banging my head against my desk until I almost break skin. I hate horny me. I hate horny me so goddamn much. Send him to Guantanamo and swallow the key.
After two more excruciating panic attacks and overcooking chicken, I finally lay down my head to rest. Every time I’m about to fall into a deep sleep, my brain feels like it’s getting electrocuted, and I wake up terrified and breathing heavily. This will go on until three AM. I am never drinking again…until Wednesday.
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