52

I throw up in the bushes to the side of the garden, holding my head as I sway around, shoes in hand and bag dangling down at ankle level. I feel like hell, tired and recounting- how many drinks I had and again gawp in disbelief that I can feel this way on a minimal amount. It hasn’t been that long since I stopped being a seasoned drinker, so there is no way my tolerance has waned this badly. I only drunk three, maybe four glasses at most, yet I am in the state of having had ten or more. Everything is spinning weirdly, and it doesn’t feel like normal drunk at all. Normal drunk doesn’t give me this dry throat and painful ache in my stomach that has made me throw up twice.

I stagger up to my front door on unsteady legs; the sound of the departing cab still echoing in the distance and alerting me to the fact it’s early in the morning, around four am. or more. I have no idea what my mom will say. I’m completely disappointed in myself. And to make it w