Monday Is The New Friday

So here's how it works.

Friday night. You go out drinking. Everyone at the bar is out of their minds, total mayhem and chaos. Drinks are being spilled all over the floor. The bathroom is barely working, there's a huge hole in the side of the toilet that's covered up with blue tape and the floor is soaking wet. The jukebox is blasting so loud you can clearly hear the music outside. Everyone is yelling to be heard above the din. Everyone is sweating. It's a madhouse. At closing time, word gets out that somebody is having people over, the night is not done yet. So half the goddamn bar treks over to somebody's place and the drinking and the yelling and whatnot continues well into the night. Somehow, you get a ride home from someone at 4:30 in the morning. This person is an angel. You get home, climb the stairs and fall into bed. Done. Yes, you are drunk, but you are in one piece.

Monday night. You go out to meet a buddy for a beer or two, just to get out of the apartment. Nothing too crazy, won't be a late night. It's seven o'clock. The bar you're going to is right down the street. You get there, take a seat at the bar and order a beer. The game is on TV. Everything is low-key, it's somewhat quiet, nobody is yelling and hollering, the music isn't blasting. It's somewhat calm. Your buddy shows up, orders a beer and you shoot the shit. More beers. Then, all of a sudden, you're drinking a vodka tonic. Then, for some reason, a whiskey sour. Then another. You put a five dollar bill in the jukebox but it doesn't work. So you put another five in the jukebox, this time it works, and you play a bunch of songs you would probably never listen to otherwise, but you're so hammered that they're the best songs you've ever heard. Another whiskey sour. You pay the bill and leave.

Somehow you got home, because now it's Tuesday morning and your alarm clock is going off. You wake up, no idea where you are, except that there is vomit next to your bed. And over near the sofa. And there's also vomit in the kitchen sink. What a fucking mess. Your head feels like somebody has been kicking it with steel-toed boots. You think and think and think and have absolutely no idea how you got home. All you know is that you now have to get up and somehow go to work. Because it's fucking Tuesday, and you went out on Monday night and got completely trashed. Why? All you wanted was a beer or two. And this is what you got. You got what you deserved.