Somewhere on the loud, sad boulevard to 30, though, the toll goes up. Sure, there's the whole dirt-balloon thing, plus your stomach is dissolving in its own bile, and you’re 40lb overweight. But you’ve budgeted for those surcharges.
No, this new consequence is a bridge too far. It’s a glimpse into the void; a liquor-borne flicker of unflattering light; a sharp stab of self-awareness. When your cakewalk ends, like mine did, each hangover will deliver unto you the blunt, vast, and unremitting distress of adulthood.
(Plus vomit. There’s always gonna be vomit.)
Having never in your young, smiley life encountered such a sinister force, you’ll have no fucking clue how to deal with it. As such, the fear will crush you.
It will rattle around your booze-addled brain, prodding its walls, grasping at straws to gain a foothold on your troubles. Did I send that email to my boss? How much money did I spend last night? Oh no, did I really hook up with Stephanie again?