After suckling upon the teat of mild intoxication at lunch, Dan is feeling bluer than the Cookie Monster’s balls at an Arnott’s strip show. He had tasted freedom and now was back in his corporate prison cell. He knows 3 pints at lunch is a bad idea, but a man is not a camel.
He slowly gnaws on an emergency BLT from Croissant Express while he counts down the clock until he can get his beak back in the boozy birdbath of escapism. In a twist of good fortune, he notices his bosses duck off early; it’s time to make his move.
To knock that pesky mid-arvo hangover on the head, he ducks into the disabled toilet and chops up a dexie like he was in a Saudi Arabian hit squad. There is no time for the slow cogs of digestion to turn over; he needed to get his buzz back.
Boom, he’s back, baby. He charges into a nearby bar and starts yammering at anyone who will listen. While waiting for his mates, he takes the edge off with a couple of pints and 6 darts. Like a slow matador’s gooch, he is really taking this afternoon by the horns.
His friends finally arrive, and by this stage, Dan is a bit intense. He is grabbing people by the arms and yelling into their ears like they were an old drive-through speaker at Red Rooster. His friends sense the ever looming glare of the bouncers and figure Dan could use some fresh air on the way to the next bar.
With each pint his behaviour creeps along the regret spectrum. Not that he cares, it’s Friday and reality won’t set back in until Sunday evening. Like a walking Linkedin request, he starts brandishing business cards and trying to “network”. As a rule of thumb, try not to network while your pants are covered in drops of piss.
After a couple of cocktails and some D5s, the entire group is on Dan’s level, and the suggestion is made, “should we get some rack?” Dan’s eyes light up like he was a Transit Cop that just spotted a bewildered tourist on a train.
Fuck you Barefoot Investor, Dan thinks as he withdraws $350 – who cares about an ING savings account when you’re feeling this good. He spends the remainder of his night huddled in toilet cubicles cutting lines so small you’d think they were the queue to buy the new Carlton Draught 0%. Hey, being a baller is expensive.
Several hours later, Dan finally gets some rest. Only to awaken into a hungover hellscape where he is tormented by the demons of his depleted bank balance and his thirsty social media carry-on. La Dolce Vita.
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