The only thing, as I’m sure Wilde would have said, through his green teeth*, worse than NOT having a big weekend, is having a big weekend. And bygod Mister, you are so right on!
I seem to spend my whole week being incredibly diligent and getting up very early (sometimes, and I shit you not, BEFORE 7am! My diary doesn’t even recgonize the existance of TIME before 7am! Before this year I had only the vaguest of mathematical notions of the hours extant between 5 (“kicking girl out of bed”** am) and 7 (“oh my fuck it’s daytime” am)), with the promise of two joyous days of sleep as a consolation prize for getting through it all. The sweet, sweet premise of the weekend.
But then, high as a Chambers’ Street hippie on the excitement the brief spells of punctuality and industriousness that sporadically punctuate my weekdays, I am inspired to schedule “fun activities” over my precious freedom.
These may include, but are not limited to:
These may include, but are not limited to:
- Running up hills
- Running around various parks (or, more frequently, sitting on benches at parks)
- Drinking more than four standard drinks on any one drinking occasion*** (cry your fucking heart out, ALAC)
- Illegally appropriating and re-distributing varied garden furniture (sorry mum! But, honestly, some people obviously have no conception of the potential visual nuances and heightened impact that the simple doormat can, with an entourage of similarly absconded doormats, make to the whole “ambiance” of a footpath)
- Hanging out and swearing and taking in and hanging out and fucking taking in and sulking and stuffing in drier a week’s worth of washing
- Other things (see: “sport”, “homework” and “rain” for details)
Which leaves me feeling justifiably rather fatty-gay by Monday.
Ah. Mondays! They tend to follow rather a rigid pattern.
And that pattern is a spiral.
First you have the whole “I do not wish to get out of bed.” But you do. And it is... ok. And then you wash your hair and then cannot wear a beanie on the walk to uni because your hair is wet. And your ears get cold, but it is still ok. Then you walk across the park and... your shoes get wet. This is less ok. Then you trip over on the second step (DESPITE all eight signs!) coming in cafe door to get coffee. And a tiny piece of you begins to narrow its eyes and clench its fists. Then you step on a drawing pin someone (you) left point-up in your office (hanging up cat posters) and a small swear word escapes from your pursed lips. Then your ipod dies. Then you go to class... and there is statistics. And it’s like urrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRGHHHH MONDAYS!! WHY DO YOU EXIST TO CURSE ME!!
Once you have reached this point, there is only ever one answer.
The best answer.
Coffee is truly dear to my heart, and to that small withered piece of libertarian cardiac tissue that stands in the place of Liz’s.
It is a drug.
The best drug!
A cheap, socially acceptable drug, responsible for thousands of first-rate third-world job opportunities, marketing degree passes and corporate fat-man heart attacks annually.
But it is also so much more than that; it is a cure for all the ills in the world (primarily sneans, studylink, and Mondays).
The Monday jolt of impending deadlines and insufficiency of sleep means you end up drinking so much coffee you start to feel like your hands are very fast and far away. Vicious, headache-inducing, I-got-chest-hair-on-my-chest-hair amounts of caffeine (brewed in a saucepan for extra hardcore-ness and cos I broke my plunger glass last year when it was the only vaguely clean surface in the house and I tried to bake nachos in it (oh, and just for the record, this is not really recommended)).
Coffee. I love you. We should have tiny hyperactive babies together and live in a giant white house by a lake and paddle little kayaks around and have picnics and parties in the woods and really energetic sex. We could have such a beautiful, fast, life together.
It’s coffee time.
* Interesting story actually! So Wilde, epic homo, was arrested for having the criminally faggy affectation of covering his mouth with his hand when speaking. In fact, this was because he ingested vast quantities of mercury (chemical abbreviation, Huge Gay, an obvious clue) which at the time was the accepted cure for syphilis (and, remarkable for the time (when pregnancy was treated with bloodletting and the flu with abstaining from drinking fluid) a functional one. Though mostly because it poisoned the bacteria marginally more swiftly than it poisoned you) WHICH he got from sleeping with a (female) prostitute. LOL.
** This one is for you.
*** I initially wrote coccasion. heh. heh. heh.