By which I mean, I went out and got totally, uproariously drunk. And danced. ALOT. With my friends from not-work. Sometimes I forget they exist because I'm too busy making decisions with Alex or going for lunch with Charlie or trying not to push Izzy's head through a wall. But last week Romilly called, and she was like "Hey Media Lady, a bunch of us are going out, remember us? Your friends from college?" And I thought, well why the hell not? The thing is that most of them have pretty boring jobs that they don't really care about, or they're unemployed, so they were going out on a Sunday night. I decided this was a good idea and we headed off to a local secret venue. Top secret. So secret there were only a few people there, which made me think it would be shit.
Then I drank.
Oh god I drank.
And then someone produced some kind of wonderful substance - I was already fucked by this point, I have no idea what it even was. It might have been popcorn for all I know. But anyway, we ate some, I ate LOTS of whatever the fuck it was, and then I decided I could definitely fly. Definitely. I stood on a table and jumped off to prove it. All I have to prove that is a pretty impressive bruise.
Not as bad as Vikki, who I hadn't seen in years, and who decided that the thing she wanted to be most of all in the world, even more than she'd wanted to be a popstar when she was a kid, is a whale. Yeah, like, the big fat things in the sea. So then she showed us what she thought she'd look like as a whale, and made whale noises, and all this time I was screaming "I CAN FLY THOUGH I CAN!! LOOK!" and Daisy (who was also with us) was laughing so much she was nearly choking on her cigarette, and Romilly if I'm honest was just looking fucking terrified and out of her depth.
As you can imagine, the Monday Morning Meeting at work wasn't my most stellar performance to date. Opening my eyes had felt like my face was being pried open with a screwdriver by the devil himself, standing up was a challenge, I was shaking all over and the only way I felt remotely comfortable was lying flat on the right side of my body. I think my boss might have had something to say about me suddenly lying flat on the desk though, so I just somehow got through the day and limped home.
The hangover was so intense that it took a couple of days to get over it. And the rest of the week I felt a bit ashamed of myself and went straight home every day after work, climbed into bed and slept like a Good Media Lady.
But tonight it's Sunday again, and I'm feeling the way I usually do on a Friday, or occasionally a Saturday, where my body's like "Hey Media Lady, we haven't been out for, like, a week. LET'S GET FUCKING SMASHED." But I really shouldn't.
Ohhh but I want to SO MUCH.
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