Shock – any seasoned Sunday sesh pisshead will know the feeling all too well. How did midday turn into 8:45 pm so quickly?
You’d let time and the sun slip away from you and you’re standing around the beer garden looking like a mullet stunned by the taser of reality.
Denial – surely your phone switched to Melbourne time? Its never done that before but surely it’s not almost 9 pm. Someone is having a laugh.
You figure another drink will provide you with some clarity. Alas, all it does is add to the droplets of piss forming around your shorts. Nevertheless, you’re 100% sure it’s a prank. You’re only warming up, after all!
Anger – why have the consequences of your own sloppy choices caught up with you so brutally?
You begin to get worked up over the fact you need to work for a living and can’t just get paid to sink piss and talk shit. Like you were born to do. Why haven’t you started that business you talk about every Sunday? Ahhhhh, you’re the fkn worst.
Bargaining – here comes the desperate calculus of the Sunday sesh fiend. Trying to work out exactly how much sleep you need to function as a human tomorrow.
You run the numbers again and again and they ain’t looking flash, mate, they ain’t looking flash. So you begin to convince yourself that the time you woke up fresh after 4 hours of sleep in the summer of 2010 could happen again. You fkn fool.
Depression – it dawns on you that you’ve repeated your behaviour that you swore to never do again just last week.
You look at your red, sloppy face in the bathroom mirror and demand answers to why you’re like this. You leave unanswered and unsatisfied. You wonder if you’re the negative influence in your own life.
Acceptance – you spot a few more loose units in a way worse state than you and take solace in that. You begin to focus on the things you HAVE done right rather than your long list of mistakes.
At least you didn’t get on the d-bangers this time, ay? Well, only 3. But you CERTAINLY didn’t shart this time around and you can be proud of that.
Processing – you know what has to be done. Two large meatboxes delivered to your den of depravity. Maybe briefly consider a token effort to get on top of your chores. Like your unwashed work clothes.
Place that negativity in the fuckit-bucket and fill the void of Sunday finishing with greasy kebab shop fare. Ooff, what’s that? There’s that shart you previously held your head up high about dodging.
Go to bed you absolute cretin.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?
