Resting

We wake up relieved to find ourselves in our own bed as we are not exactly sure how we got home last night. Our head is a bass drum, our mouth is made of cotton, and out eyelids are sandpaper. We feel worse than death. What did we do last night? Spotty memories fade in: spilt drinks and deeply embarrassing dance moves. We check our phone. There is about a hundred blurry photos from last night. We don’t recognize half the people in them. We vow to never drink again for the rest of our life. Well, maybe just until next weekend.