Wednesday, 10 August 2016

the consequences of living for the weekend.

I, like many of my peers, am the epitome of a weekend warrior. A classic 9-5er, by COP (or whatever other moronic corporate acronym you despise but definitely use in work emails) Friday I can hear a Prosecco cork pop from 50m.

The thing is I'm just not built for binge drinking anymore. As I write this, on a Wednesday evening, I am still faintly aware of Sunday's abhorrent hangover lurking around in my temperamental gut. It has taken 2 pizzas, a Nandos, a mountain of mac and cheese, endless cups of tea, countless cans of Diet Coke and hundreds of comforting cuddles to help get me back to normal. And that's just the physical symptoms.

For me, the emotional aftermath of a heavy weekend is often as debilitating as the actual hangover. I feel anxious and sad (especially when my rum-fuelled drunk persona has been 'annoying crying girl') for days and the slightest thing can bring me to tears. Scuffing the shit out of brand new silver boots for instance.

This week, drowning in the depths of this harrowing hang, I cry; "never again". Until next Saturday that is...