Dan is awoken by a familiar natural phenomenon: the excess alcohol he consumed last night has caused a Sahara-esque situation in his mouth. In stark contrast, his extreme thirst is compounded by a ruthless desire to piss like a racehorse.
His entire body is yearning for him to sort himself out. His blurry eyes try to focus on the time being displayed on his phone. Fuck, 11:15 am. Propelled by guilt and stabilised by denial, he leaps from his bed and slams down his housemate’s Blue Powerade. Let’s do this.
Dan marauds his equally hungover roommate by entering his room and pepping him up for a Sunday morning feed. There is only one thing for it – dim sum for days. Smashing more squid tentacles than a Japanese smut film.
They banter about the shenanigans of the night gone, and then Dan checks his phone. Oh fuck, christ no, fuck. Dan realises that last night he messaged a girl that he met through a friend on Facebook at 2:14 am, “lol s.o drunnkkkk, sledsfp well beatiful lol xxx nsfsd x”.
His housemates face recoils in disgusted pity: “well, that is a write off mate”. Dan drags his finger in the soy sauce left on his plate and places it directly into his pie hole.
The pair decide to embrace the warm Spring weather and grab a Bloody Mary at the pub down the road. A few Bloody Marys later they are feeling re-born in their hungover euphoria.
Their bodies have stopped hurting and they feel far better than they deserve to. They start inviting friends back to their house. It’s BBQ time. Dan picks up a carton and his housemate sorts out the ingredients needed for a good old fashioned slop.
Just like that, in that magical way that spur of the moment memories are forged, their backyard is transformed into a Sunday wonderland. Good mates, cold beers, well rolled doobs and a warm feeling of harmony brought on by inebriation and an undeniable thought that they may have just seized the day.
For a moment in time, the lowest hanging fruit tasted the sweetest, and the responsibilities and obligations of life played prelude to a group of mates just kickin’ it.
Eventually, everyone disperses back to their places of residence to deal with the impending fear and loathing that Sunday evenings invariably bring.
Dan knows too well that he has overindulged and Monday morning is going to be a grind. Fuck it, he enjoys the untruths that the sloppy tell themselves and charges into the evening. How could anything that feels this good be so bad for you?
It’s now 10 pm and Dan enters a state of existential dread. Suddenly, the cheers from the sesh transform the cruel taunts of reality. He begins to do the wicked calculus of beers consumed to hours left to sleep.
He hits enter on the graphics calculator of life and realises tomorrow is going to be rougher than a shot of beam on a hangover. He retreats to his bed, drops a few valiums and sweats himself into an unharmonious slumber.
He hopes he never wakes up but a shit tomorrow is guaranteed when you live your life one Sunday sesh at a time.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?