The Morning After

When I wake up after a night of excessive consumption of that sweet or bitter colorless volatile flammable liquid which is the intoxicating constituent of wine, beer or spirits, I raise my very heavy head to make sure I am sleeping on a very clean pillow because you know sometimes you get too high and filthy and disgusting and you end up sleeping on your own vomit (yeah, you know this, I am sure it has happened to you at least once but you could care less because your hangover a fucking big problem), then I slightly raise my head to about 30 degrees from the pillow to feel how heavy it is and if it is throbbing so I can judge my hangover, I widen my eyes by increasing the distance between my two eyelids exposing my very beautiful almost snow white, not really snow white, bloodshot is more like it, eyeballs to the light of the day and I start looking around to make sure I am in my house. This process takes about 5 – 10minutes. That I how long it takes me to recognize my house when I am experiencing a hangover. I can barely see anything those first two minutes of looking.

If I am not in my house, I have to be at my friend’s house. If not in my friend’s house, ‘Oh! Man, shit shit shit. I am such a loser. How did I end up at a stranger’s house again! What is wrong with me! Why do I never learn!’ If I am in a stranger’s house, “Oh shit! Fucking hell. Why the hell can’t I just drink alcohol with moderation? I am going to hell. Fuck me.” I really hope to see a face that I know. I hope there will be a dozen people in that house, just in case he is a serial killer or a date rapist (my thought process tends, to begin with, the worst case scenario), we could tie his hands and feet to his bed, remove his clothes, draw some penis swastikas on his face, put some cocaine on his tongue, switch on the television and put on some pornography and gag his mouth before walking out and feeling good like we just saved the world from one annoying loser. That way, I won’t be worried at all.

If I am alone in bed with a stranger, I totally freak out. All the demons from my childhood rare their faces. My fucking Science teacher, I was only eleven, you stupid motherfucker. I did not need to know the taste of your mouth or how nipples felt when they are touched. You motherfucking son of a bit, I was a little innocent girl and you taught me things that I cannot even imagine doing at my current age. Well, what would I be without my demons, they are sadly always there for me. My heart decides to beat really fast and I get seduced by an anxiety attack. If the stranger is a man, I check to see if I have my clothes on. If I don’t have them on, I go to the toilet to make sure I am not sore down three and my nipples are intact. (I once dated a guy who likes to bite; my

nipples were permanently erect because they were always swollen and people always mistook me for the horny lady).

If I am sore, I go to the nearest trash can to look for a rubber sheath that is usually worn on the penis during sexual intercourse as a contraceptive and to protect against infection. You know that thing that people do not like to use and then they get unplanned for babies. If there is no rubber sheath in the trash can, I go back to the bedroom to do five things.

One, I pull off the blanket off the bed to make sure that this boy stranger whose name I do not know has a penis. The penis should be free from dirt, marks, and pollutants. There are some pretty filthy lads out here and when you drink to a stupor like me, you can end up home with one of the filthy lads. I thoroughly inspect that penis to my satisfaction hoping that he is dead asleep.

Two, I check around the bedroom for a used rubber sheath, hoping to find at least one or two or three of five depending on how sore I am. Under the bed, between the sheets, under the pillow, on the floor, in my vagina. “Fucking hell, if I do not find any, I will have to take a morning after pill. I hate those things and the woman at the chemist has the most piercing judgmental eyes. Holy shit snacks.”

Three, I wake up the strange boy and ask the said strange boy if he has any disease in his little man that I should be worried about. “If I am gonna die, I would like to be very well mentally prepared. I might choose to go with suicide then get cremated and leave all my belongings to the hobo down the street, he sure could use a trench coat.”

Four, I dress up really fast.

Five, I open my mouth really wide and let out a prolonged high-pitched cry of anger for being such a dirty little promiscuous woman who just’ debased herself by doing something for unworthy motives and I hope that Santa will not inflict a penalty on me as retribution for my bad behavior.

If the stranger next to me in bed has boobs, I definitely do have a fairy godmother that watches over me. More so if she has perky boobs and pouty lips. I would never leave the said strangers house.

If the stranger has boobs and a penis, I will take the time to study this mysterious being, entity, thing while enjoying every single moment of it. I will then decide on whether to kill myself after eating 5 liters of vanilla ice cream with chocolate flakes laced with my very good friend Jack Daniels or to get back into bed and relive the previous night. Who knows, I could have really enjoyed it, I just can’t remember.


2 thoughts on “The Morning After

  1. Consider yourself fortunate that you actually have a brain even though it is retired – I’m still looking for mine. 🙂


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