I don't think I can put into words exactly how bad I feel right now. It's partly because of the embarrassing situations I have again managed to get myself into when I got drunk last Saturday night and because of the post-effects on my Sunday.
I'm above pretending to be drunk just to see how much people will make fun of me. I've proved that they will laugh at you but then take care you after. I actually like lasting longer in drinking sessions because the conversations take on really interesting turns, and I wouldn't miss out on that. But I can't help it if I get dizzy after three shots. I've always been a cheap drunk . . . and a bad one too.
I wouldn't have minded waking up yesterday with a major thumping headache; I've been in that sheet one too many times. But this time, this time, I missed something that I was looking forward to for three weeks with someone.
My 10-kilometer marathon with Hannah.
Thinking about it breaks my heart in pieces. The first thing I did when I woke up and found out that it was almost seven was cry. I had to cry. Drinking all that lethal combo of Gatorade and rhum wasn't worth missing the marathon. It just wasn't worth it.
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