Every Sunday night, hundreds of thousands of Australians salvage whatever self-respect they can from the weekend’s shipwreck and promise to set sail towards the calm waters of clean living.
Monday & Tuesday are truly beacons of hope. Instead of sliding filth down your gullet like it was the Tunnel of Terror at the Adventure World Adults Only Party, you embrace a life of Thai noodle salads and consume more water than a Guantanamo Bay detainee.
By Wednesday, you are no longer serenading the work toilet with the thunderous power ballad of poor choices. You are no longer slinking out of the cubicle in shame, you are walking tall, your blood could cure cancer, your DNA is a god damn vaccine.
Alas, the S.S Sobriety starts hitting rocky seas by Wednesday and the cheap washing powder of boredom begins to make you itch. By Thursday that itch has become full-blown eczema as you’re forced deal with your dickhead coworkers bullshit for yet another day. Fuck it, a coupla couplas at the pub is just what the doctor ordered.
Of all the lies we tell ourselves, believing the false economy that is Thursday is the worst. A day so close, yet so far from the freedom of the weekend. Pints & parmis are tasting so fucking good, and you barely keep track of your spending as you get lost in the glory of the pub sesh.
Soon, a coupla couplas turns into a few more and you’re balls deep into a conversation about starting up a business with your mates and freeing yourself from the confines of full-time employment. Sure, you ramble on about it every week, but this week, you are actually going to make it happen. You shake on it and all.
By 11, you are probably more pissed than you’d planned to get, but you repeatedly remind yourself that it’s worth it – how can feeling this good possibly have a downside? In that very spirit of YOLO, you decide to seal the deal with some late night eats. You are living it up.
7 am rolls around and your alarm shocks you into a state of dehydrated horror. Nursing a classic 1st-degree hangover, you’re not crook enough to call it in, but certainly won’t be tap dancing to the show tunes of good vibes. Before long the realisations start to flood in – you spent $110, you drank 7 pints, you sent some cringey fucking messages.
Once again, you went out in a blaze of glory and have well and truly mid-week’d the fuck out of yourself.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?
or PayPal if you’d be so kind…