Sunday afternoon, I woke up to sunbeams, a hangover and a lingering feeling of regret. I didn't remember coming home from Tara's party yesterday. Infact, I barely remember a lot of things after at least my 3rd drink with Rosie.
Everything was fuzzy.
I rolled over to my other side and the first thing I saw was a warming flask on my bed side table with a sticky note pasted on it. I reached out for it; a note from mum.
Just how much did you drink, young lady? We'll have a talk later.
I've gone to the church, here's some soup for the hangover.
Love, mum.
My mouth tasted sour, like vomit. I didn't remember doing that either.
I decided to brush my teeth and wash off the grime first–though from the look of things, my mum probably wiped me off with water yesterday because I was in my pajama
