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.
Into hell.
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.
More coffee.
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 Monday.
It’s coffee time.
Byeeeeee Ruby.
Byeeeeee Ruby.
* 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.
Dear Ruby,
ReplyDeleteI though we had taught you right from wrong. Or to put it another way, taught you the ability to look at the world from another persons perspective. No consider this!! Imagine after a long weekend of going to church and feeding the roses tomato food, you find that it is 6.30 and time to have a cup of soup with tibbles the cat and listen to ancient radio clips on the national programme. As you walk into your semi detatched you notice that the door mat is slightly askew, and to make matter worse, it has some grass stains on it. Mr Theobold the gnome glances at you reproachfully, as that is the expression most garden gnomes have and after a few minutes scrubbing and rearranging you settle the frontspiece and head into your cocoon of Sunday night.
Frame shift to Monday morning when you go to the front door to find your ODT on a door mat which not only has more grass stains but a whole trible of Mr Theobolds, from next door. It is to much. Monday morning and your weekend is shattered. Images of gnomes rioting all over the street burst into your mind. Gnome orgies in your front door step. Maybe those noises you heard weer not students after all. You did sleep rather badly. You stagger into the kitchen and reach for the coffee pot. You havent drunk coffee in ten years ever since that embarrasing time in a cafe in george street when you didnt undertsand what a latte was. You pour a few drops of whiskey into the coffee becasue it seems like a good idea at the time, and then abandoning the coffee altogether you drink the whole bottle and head out in a newly fortified frame of mind to deal with those Fu!#$%ing gnomes. You smash your way through them like an avenging angel from a teenages video game until the police arrive and take you away to a little cell. A month later your find yourself in a funny little room with bad wallpaper and think to yourself "Its the wallpaper or me, one of us has to go"
So think of others little one, and dont drink too much coffe. I'm off to fuel for my thiord of the day and it is only 10.00
Dear Eponymous Anonymous.
ReplyDeleteYou are clearly very awesome.
Are you good at tennis also? I bet you are, but not as awesome as me.
Three already! Gosh that is rather a lot of caffeine! Good thing you know what a latte is now! Or, at least, what a trim latte is.
I have only had one coffee so far today, and Liz made it so it was a bit piddling.
I will come and visit you in your tiny cell and redecorate. I'm sure the wallpaper and I will be able to work something out.
Ruby.