The Art of a Hangover

It was one of those nights where when I woke up, I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror. It’s not that I did anything despicable. It’s just I abused my body and unlike most nights where I have my elaborate rituals to try to undue the damage, when I walked in through the door at 12:30am, still in full make-up, I stripped down and plopped myself into my bed. No washing my face, no make-up remover applied, and definitely no comfy jammies. Although I did manage to brush my teeth and find my teddy Harry III, a gift from Corinne. I do have some priorities.

I had a very fitful nights sleep. I think I was up every hour from 5:30am onwards. But, let me tell you that English sunrises are fucking incredible. And then after you see about thirty second of it, standing half naked at your window reading the texts that were sent last night (which I do remember sending, btw) because you can’t get reception any place in the room, you realize that maybe you should have responded 'No' to, “Do you want to split a bottle of Chianti?” and responded an emphatic ‘fuck no!’ to, “So, my treat, who wants to order a second bottle.”

This place is very reminiscent of undergrad; not my undergrad but the experience I missed out on by going to the gay convent (affectionately nicknamed of course). There is a part of me that feels like I am making up for lost time, understanding the fun in getting dressed up for class, going to the library looking cute, and of course the dreaded—going out on a school night because, much to my demise, all of my classes start at noon or later.

It’s a struggle of what I know I should be doing and what is so much fun. I was talking to my mother yesterday telling her how I am making headway in my writing because, unlike NYC, I can close the door and nobody really knows how to find me—especially since I get no cell reception in my room. I know I should be staying in, working on my writing, doing the reading for class. It’s like I am still stuck on this vacation mentality, because, although my clothes are here and my posters adorn my walls, only my room feels like home. As long as I stay in my nicely decorated cell, I can keep those promises to myself, it’s when I leave its confines that I am forced to acknowledge, I feel more like a study abroad student than a Masters student at Oxford.

So where does that leave me? Trying to do as much work today so I can go back out tonight. My liver is weeping, my bank account is bleeding, and all I want to do at this very moment is turn over and fall back asleep. Which, I think, one hour really isn’t going to hurt, right? I need to find self-discipline and fulfill the promises of how I was going to change because, all of this is beginning to seem eerily familiar.