Sort it out.
It's when you wake up the next morning with your eyelids stuck together from the two hours of crying and the mascara holding your lashes together that you wonder if this is rock bottom yet. I mean, things really can't get any worse, can they? You've alienated yourself from your friends and family back home, you don't have any money, you quit your job after two shifts, you've become addicted to pro plus and taking two every morning is the only way that you can get out of bed. You've drank, smoked, snorted and danced all of your money away. The security guards no longer ask you for your student ID because you're a regular at the bar and people only know you as the girl who likes to dance. You forget that you even have lectures, you've lost track of all of the homework you have to do and you cry over boys who won't remember your face let alone your name the next morning.
But you press on. You don't stop going out, your immune system is on the verge of completely failing and you can't get rid of the fucking cough that has been clinging to your chest for two months, but it's okay. One more fag, one more line, one more drink, one more spliff, one more song. You shove the guilt aside and don't even think about admiting to anyone how badly you've fucked up because the last thing you want to hear is "I told you so" or listen to four hour lectures about how you should have budgeted better, planned better, prepared better, done everything better. Which is why you never ask for help. You don't let yourself think about how you've let everyone down, mostly yourself.
Because tomorrow is a new day and you're so far in denial about the entire situation that you think no matter how deep the hole is, you can still climb out of it.