So you lay there, with your stomach in a knot, motionless. The calls from your roommates don’t even earn a coherent response from you. If you decide to say anything, it really wouldn’t matter because it all comes out sounding like a bad radio signal. To your roommates, you might as well have not said anything.

As you lay there in the warmth of your comforter, you try to assemble your Sunday hangover survival kit.

Your phone, if you get the power to turn over and find it, is a remnant of last night’s successes and losses. Full with texts that you didn’t want to see, texts you accidentally sent, texts you don’t even understand or a combination of all three. Your next move, you move your arm around the bed, hoping, almost begging the remote to be in arm’s reach.