It's happening again.
I can tell exactly how the morning will go, and I haven't even gotten out of bed yet.
The door was slammed closed, jolting me from my slumber. The sound from the door echoes in my head, and I'm reminded of the nauseating hangover I have from last night.
I guess those are the consequences from binge drinking over your "platonic" best friend.
A loud groan escapes my lips from being woken up at this god-forbidden time, and I throw my long and lanky legs over the side of my bed. As soon as I stand up abruptly, I realize that was not a smart decision, and in a second I'm on my knees, hurling my guts out into my toilet.
In a flash, Mitch is by my side, rubbing my back soothingly and whispering sweet nothings into my ear. After what felt like hours, the throwing of my chunks is finished, and I still feel like shit.
I would be happy that he is here to comfort me, but I know that as soon as I feel the slightest bit better, he'll tell me another terrible story, a...