homeHey, look who showed up to class today. If you're wondering who, it's me. That's who. I seem to have gotten bit by the hookie bug the last two days. Whoops.
In all honestly, I think the last two days have been a wake up call. What kind of wake up call, you may ask? The kind that slaps you right in the face and reminds you that you are, in fact, a grown adult, even if you don't feel like it most days.
With the holidays come parties. If you know me at all, you probably already know that I love a good party, so it's no surprise that when I got invited to my stinky dive bar's annual Christmas party, I was pretty damn excited. Especially since I'm my boss' only employee which means there's no office party or anything of that nature. Which, honestly, I'm thankful for because my boss doesn't ever need to be around to witness me in party mode. Ever.
Unfortunately for this working girl right here, the Christmas party I got invited to fell on a Monday. This past Monday, to be exact. Like any responsible, hardworking, employee, I went ahead and asked my boss for a half-day the following Tuesday, AKA yesterday. Not because I doubted my abilities to jump back on the horse after a night of fun, but because I was advised by three different people, who attended last year's party, that I wouldn't be capable of moving before 11am the following day.
Countless Jello shots, Fireball shots, car bombs, and lord only knows how many Bacardi Limon and ginger ale's later, they were right.
When my alarm went off yesterday morning I was positive my apartment was crashing down on me and I was paralyzed. Point, Christmas party.
I slept it off as late as I possibly could before I needed to get my ass to my desk and get something accomplished before I landed my ass on the unemployment list. It. Was. ROUGH.
Somewhere around 1pm, when I couldn't get more than a soda water down in my belly, I got that ol' smack in the face I was discussing earlier. I'm pretty sure I could feel my liver cringing with every sip, hoping there was no vodka in that water. Hell, I felt myself cringing, hoping there was no vodka in that water. Not to mention, I couldn't even speak the words "Jello shot" without gagging. Yeah, it was that bad.
I guess the moral of this story is that, once again, I'm very much 26 despite what the devil on my shoulder tries to tell me when someone hands me my fourth consecutive pineapple barf Jello shot. The hangover struggle is real, y'all.
It's back to Miller Lite, Chardonnay, and the occasional Fireball shot for this girl. You know, once I've actually recovered. Because if we're being real here, I'm still rocking traces of this damn hangover from hell, and I'm sorry if that disappoints some of you. Which, if I know some of you readers out there, you're most definitely shaking your head in serious disappointment.
RIP 21 year old party Whit.
Don't forget to enter for your chance to win one of this month's IWYP By: Whitney Ellen shirt. Two winners will be chosen and announced tomorrow!
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