On Sunday morning I woke up fully clothed with my contact lenses still in and glitter all over my bed. I couldn’t remember how I got there and feared that finding out would unleash a series of mortifying flashbacks.
We’d had a houseparty. I was drinking from a mug and can only assume that by the end of the night (well, the end of my night at least) I was having the teeniest of tiny splashes of coke with my rum. I found a voice note sent to my friend in which I inexplicably did a terrible New York accent.
With much, much pain and confusion I managed to drag myself up and get to rehearsal, but not without first puking all over the platform at Liverpool Street station, alerting not one but three station staff to my pathetic state.
Cue a day of rehearsals where I experienced the heady combination of existential dread, self loathing and musical theatre. I had never been so grateful for the existence of a bed on our set.
This isn’t intended as a ‘wahey I’m such a laugh mate I was so drunk yaaa’ kind of a tale. The hangover shame is real and I think I’m a fucking plank.
Why do we do this to ourselves? Why couldn’t I have had one or two lesss drinks, instead of getting to the point where I spent the next day worried that my brain was going to fall out of my nose?!
Of course, I could swear off drinking but we’d all know that’s a massive lie. I would however like to get to the point where I never again feel like sending a blanket apology text just in case because I vaguely remember Drunk Penny being utterly insufferable. I’d like not to feel like my body has been drained of every single nutrient – and, let’s face it, as the sort of vegan who doesn’t really like vegetables, there probably weren’t that many nutrients in there to begin with. I’d like to not wake up to the realisation that I’ve used a cupcake carry case as a makeshift sick bucket.
If you ever see me hitting the bar one too many times in the future, please shove this blog in my idiotic face.
My apartment’s not there anymore, because I drank it- Chandler Bing