You’ve been drinking non- stop for three days. Your brain is fried, your liver is shot and a persistent twitch has developed in your left eye. You’ve argued with your partner about wet towels on the bathroom floor and she’s gone out in a huff leaving you to wallow in a half lit room watching conspiracy documentaries on Netflix and drinking endless cups of herbal tea in the vain hope that lashings of flavoured hot water might purify your debauched and wretched soul.
Truth is at this moment in time you’d be better off dead but even hell wouldn’t take you in this state so if you put your head in the oven all you’d have to look forward to is purgatory; which is exactly where you are right now but this one has access to take-way food and there is no guarantee that you can get a chicken kebab in the other one at this time on a Sunday.
Suddenly as you’re hovering over the urinal extracting some supernaturally luminescent urine from the flaccid flap of skin you once called a penis you realise that your partner’s bitching about wet towels was just the tip of the iceberg. Truth is you’ve been drifting apart for months and you have the hots for the new intern at work because she doesn’t bitch to you about wet towels on the bathroom floor (yet) and she’s got tits to die for.
No really, tits to actually die for.
Then just when you think your miserable day couldn’t get any worse you realise that you have a god damn blog post to write. You don’t have to write one, but you feel obliged to and it will niggle you in the balls all day until you get it out of your system. Fortunately due to a few decades of practice you are well prepared for such terrible occasions and with shaky hands and a sweaty crotch, you do what a man has got to do. You write a blog post about writing a blog post.
You feel dirty. It was neither big or clever but at least you got it done and now you can slip your sandpaper tongue in the mouth of oblivion and kiss the rest of this wretched f*cking day goodbye.
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