This morning I woke up with a hangover even though I haven't had anything to drink since Saturday. The shot-girl in vinyl at my party enticed me to drink more than I should have, even though she didn't actually convince me to do anything. It was just the idea of drinking shots from the shot-girl in vinyl in my own living room while I was wearing my cowboy hat and chatting with my favorite girls and boys that got me to drinking way too many shots for a little girl like myself.

Sunday wasn't pretty, but it was okay because the air was still filled with the lingering affects of the party. Eating a breakfast of leftover cheez-its and cupcakes. Remembering pieces of conversations and how ridiculously behaved I was being. I am a charming drunk, this much I know, but I still get embarrassed the next day. It's because I talk too much. I know I do.

But it was okay to be hungover on Sunday, because there was a reason. Sunday's hangover was the result of an enormously good time and my inability to understand the word moderation. Today's hangover is the result of nothing good. I woke up from nightmares involving tangles of tampons in my girl places and immediately bemoaned how much I drank at the bar last night. And then I remembered that I drank one ginger ale at the bar.

Sterling's going soft.