The Mobile Veil

I got hurt again.
Boo hoo.
I’m beginning to think I’m the next, brown, Taylor Swift. Only, I’m not writing catchy songs, I’m writing semi-decent blog pieces about my feels.
All my feels.
So, on with it then, hey?
I got dumped this morning.
This is fine. It hurts and all the usual things, but I appreciate the honesty of being dumped. I’d rather be let go than dragged on along.
TAKE THE SHACKLES​ OFF MY FEET SO I CAN DANCE
You know what hurts more though? My head.
I am so hungover.
The throbbing, angry punishment in my skull for all that tasty, tasty tequila and great wastage of money, fittingly matched the growing ache in my ‘art.
I’m sad about many things.
Like, spending half a grand on beer and tequila. Who does that? I am one person. Where did it go? Who drank the tequila?
Man, I could have bought my 29th pair of shoes.
I have a problem.
Many.
I’m also sad about demolishing a tub of blueberry and cheesecake ice cream, while drunk. It’s not about the ice cream though. It’s about the way I did this.
So, you know how people start to dish out ice cream from the side? Any side, but one – just one. I didn’t. I left a gaping hole right down the centre. It’s an Iola crater, and boy did I displace some ice cream earth.
I opened the tub of ice cream to check the damage this morning, and couldn’t stop the pained groan that escaped me. What kind of monster am I?
Also. I ate A LOT of it.
Then, there’s the trail of chaos I left in my arrival.
Why is there a shoe on my couch? Did I eat the ice cream wearing one heel? If I did, I wasn’t wearing it long.
See, I’m the kind of person who sleeps in all the clothes. It’ll be summer on Mercury, and I’ll still wear baggies and a shirt. I’ll be snug, warm, comfortable and slightly feverish.
Last night though.
The heel on the couch was just the beginning. I don’t even understand. My jeans have such a slim cuff that I usually take ages, a couple jumps, and a lot of wriggling to get out of them.
It appears, I removed them with utmost ease and tossed the pair with the finesse of a drunken ballerina, onto my study table, where they then lay doing an unhappy splits.
My shirt is under my bed.
I even ripped off my socks. I NEVER sleep without socks.
Drunk me is the kind of person who would try new things.
Why am I saying all this?
Because, I was dumped over the phone, and I wonder if this person would have chosen that moment to shatter my dreams if they’d known that I was hungover as hell, barely awake, butt-ass naked, and covered in ice cream.

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