I'm sorry I've gotten dark about this

Have you ever felt as though someone were listening in on one of your worst moments? You, there, heaving away over a white bowl, with the stench of your lazy inability to clean your own bathroom wafting in waves toward your already pale and coldly sweating face? Nearly a hundred thoughts run through your head in a second: the things you may have drunkenly said last night, that half flight of stairs you nearly fell face-forward down, that dress some girl dared you to put on, whether or not eating that burrito as a supposed hangover cure was or was not in fact a good call. At the same time these hundred thoughts hit you, they dissipate into a white haze, your stomach lunges, you heave more of that awful order-in decision and the multiple shots you thought were a splendid idea just twelve hours ago. Coughing the acid up, sweating a blanket of pale, and intermittently thinking between moments of overwhelmed purging, someone in the next apartment listens in. She presses her head against the wall right where your toilet is, as though she is standing over you witnessing this awful moment. You feel at your weakest and most vulnerable as this practical stranger listens in closely, a scene that ought to be private as far as you are concerned. She revels in it, strangely, knowing that there is a tinge of retribution to be enjoyed here. You see, last night you made the decision to invite your friends over for a night of debauchery to celebrate a holiday that doesn't matter to the culture it is a historical benchmark for. You poured tequila shots into the wee hours and continued to raise the volume despite her plea to "try to keep it down a bit" because she, unlike you, has a couple of jobs to maintain to pay the rent. She's listening to you pay for her night of quiet ruined. And she delights in this weak moment of yours and more so, that strange feeling you couldn't help but have -feeling watched as you throw your guts into a bowl.