**Content note: Contains graphic description of vomiting!**
One Sunday morning I woke up feeling dog rough. I'd been out with the girls the night before, and we had drunk silly amounts of cocktails and wine. My head was pounding, my mouth was dry and my stomach felt uneasy. I staggered to the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face and noted my messy hair and pale, queasy complexion. I realised I was still wearing my dress from the night before; I'd been so drunk I hadn't even managed to get undressed. Knowing I needed to rehydrate, I cupped up some water from the tap in my hands and swallowed it but it didn't make me feel any better. I pitifully took myself back to bed.
Then my phone rang; it was my boyfriend, Raz.
"How are you feeling today, babe?" he asked, knowing full well I'd been out on the town.
"I feel horrible," I said sorrowfully. "I'm hungover as fuck."
"Oh no, babe, I'm sorry. Do you want me to come over and make you feel better?"
"Yes please," I said weakly.
"I'll be on my way," he said.
**
When Raz arrived I had managed to transport myself to the sofa and was wearing my comfy grey sweatpants and a thin vest top. He kissed me and didn't seem to mind my hangover breath.
"I'm sorry, I look like shit," I said tiredly, running a hand over my unbrushed hair.
"You really don't," he said with a smile. "You look cute in sweatpants. I like the natural look. Anyway, I brought you something."
He showed me a massive takeaway cup with a straw.