Sunday Brunch – The Victory Lap

great-lakes

“Gentle reminder, it’s not a walk of shame if you stop for brunch on the way” – the internet (so it must be true.)

 

The morning after. We’ve all had that nightmare of a moment where you open your eyes and you don’t recognize the ceiling, or the uncomfortable mattress you’re currently laying on, you don’t even recognize the limp arm draped across your chest or the snoring that’s coming from beside you. It was probably during those two slutty years of college, or… last weekend. You don’t want to look, you want to close your eyes and hope that the Sandman is playing one of his nasty tricks again.

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But you know in your heart of hearts, that last night after what should have been your last gin and tonic, your alter ego Mercedes made an appearance and took home this fine fella, who, after you look him over you realize, eh, you’ve done worse. He’s probably a gentleman and would open your car door for you should he ever take you out on a date (chivalry, lol!) But you know what this means, Mercedes left you lookin a mess, like your closest relative is the raccoon digging through the dumpster out back.

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Luckily that skanky bitch (aka drunk you) didn’t pack your bag and you learned your lesson after the fifth (-teenth) time you had to walk home in your stilettos and a pair of his basketball shorts. Sliding out from under the clammy fingers trying to grope you even in his sleep (gentleman, remember?) you start picking up the trail of scattered clothes like they’re breadcrumbs you left yourself the night before. After you get over the initial terror that is looking back at you in the bathroom mirror, you wash your face with a questionable bar soap and throw your hair up with the single hair tie in your purse. Stealing one of his oversized t shirts you tie it in a cute knot at your hip and pull on your black spanx, the ones without the pee hole because they can actually pass for workout shorts – and who just went to the gym? You did! (damn girl, you healthy AF). Rolling up your outfit from the night before you shove it into your purse (yes, its small enough that it can fit in there) and you leave your prince charming (does anyone remember what his name is?) to start your very respectable “I got laid” parade knowing your mother will never be proud of you. But you still cute though!

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Stay pretty. maddie-signature

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