Spending Christmas in bed with a fever, in a lot of pain, and alone isn't exactly how I pictured this go around. Say it with me.
I will never drink again. I will never eat meat again. I will never breathe second-hand smoke again. I will never put myself in a position where I have to drink, eat meat, and breathe second-hand smoke again.
I wish I could say this is post-party syndrome. That we stayed up till four in the morning and were too drunk to realize we kissed the wrong people. I wish I could say in a perpetual effort to lose weight, it's really nice to not be able to keep food down. But alas, no, the truth is less glamorous. The truth is two days before Christmas I've vomited out all the hopes and dreams and disillusions I have of this place. That is all fine and good, but trust me, I will never ever, ever, put myself in a position for work, or otherwise, where idiots drink shots of expensive wine. I'm done.