"I have work. Then a dinner thing, and then I am busy trying to become who I am." - Hannah, Girls

Sunday, July 31, 2016

Yesterday I woke up late, showed up to work still drunk, and have a large red mark on my face.

Friday night was my friend's birthday and shocker: I drank too much. 

I was a sloppy drunk too many times sophomore year. I encourage drunkenness, but not drunkenness to the point where friends have to take care of you. I've had to be taken home way too many times in the past year. At a certain point, it wasn't a mistake. I was just being selfish. I was being a bad friend.

I don't want to be the person that people have to take care of. I want to remember the moments from last night, instead of having people tell me what happened. I'm hoping that junior year will be different from last year. I want to keep my shit together. But then Friday happened.

Most nights I've gotten super drunk, I was trying to be wasted. I would decide "I'm getting super fucked up tonight." I wasn't even trying to get super drunk on Friday, it just happened. 

And I hate myself for it. It was a brown out, not a black out. It wasn't the worst night I've had. Anything is better than the first football game last year (that will forever be the worst night).

Here's a run down of Friday:
I had an IPA at my friend's house. We took an Uber to another girl's house. I had some Franzia in a mug and from a hollow bat playing dizzy bat. I played beer pong with Pinot Noir (ew bad choice). I snorted a line of a crushed up caffeine pill from a dirty one dollar bill. Classy. We took and Uber to another party. I talked to a boy that comes into where I work. I have no idea what I said to him. I hope he doesn't come in when I'm working. We started walking to a bar. I started running. I was taken home. My Sweaty the Sober Subletter saw me super drunk and possibly naked sleeping in my bed.

What I learned from other people:
The large red mark on my face was because I fell. That's probably where my right leg was hurting too. The boys we were with didn't see me sloppy. I'm not sure if I believe my friend when she told me that. But I hope she's telling me the truth because those boys have seen me sloppy, know I'm sloppy because of a boy they live with (said boy took care of me at the first football game), and they will probably tell that boy I am still sloppy. 

And I'm over being sloppy. It's not cute to be sloppy. It's not attractive to be desperate.  

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