Many of my colleagues woke up this morning bleary eyed and remorseful after a long night of substance abuse, ludicrous dancing, ill advised lunges and inept gropes.
I must be growing up. This is the least fucked I have ever felt after an office party. I don’t have a hangover. I am not remotely shaky. There are no parts of the evening missing. Nothing I wish that I hadn’t said. I am shameless, bright eyed and bushy tailed.
But I seem to be alone in that. The Mighty R has reheated his Pumblechook’s Supreme Coffee seven times in the extremely suspect office microwave but he is still too tremulous to finish it. He’s got “Big Hat, No Cattle” syndrome and verbal diarrhoea. Ponyboy is trying to convince him that everyone has a dormant ginger gene. People are slumped at their desks mortified by the memories creeping up on them as the events of last night get slowly pieced together. Kitty just got an email from a friend across town: “Got cunted at the jolly.”
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