Sunday Hangover: I Mean Hard Work

A very very quick post for this week’s hangover, a segment that usually celebrates whimsy, non sequiturs and intelligible…ness…itude.

Well I suppose that’s relevant today when I’m trying to fill my head with exam-related factoids despite my brain’s obvious reluctance. Soon there will be nothing left of my brain but mush and a vague recollection of the inner workings of G proteins.

Trust me, there’s something to be said for those microscopic, ruthless villains.

MC Ren, I’m pretty sure, would love them.

Forgive me for my brevity and slowness, there are a number of roadblocks in my way and the diversions are trying to take me through lazytown. I promised myself I’d never go there but Sportacus can be very persuasive when he wants to be.

And no one argues with that moustache.

Sunday Hangover: Snot Him!

Like last week, I am not hungover, which might make you think that Sundays are beginning to be inappropriately named. I disagree, I can be just as much of an idiot without the aid of a throbbing headache and a constant lust for sleeping the pain away.

I do have a lot of work to cram in in the next couple of weeks however, so much that [that story I'm writing that I'm always mumbling on about] hasn’t seen much love recently; and by that I mean that I’ve managed to flesh out a couple of pages this week rather than the 10-20 I aim for.

Anyway, this isn’t stupid enough conversation for today, so let’s get to something that can turn your brains into a mush so squishy that it’ll slide out through your nose and drip onto your now lolling tongue.

Speaking of squishy stuff coming out of your nose I’ve been battling the sniffles for a few days and have noticed a couple of annoying things about having inappropriate levels of mucus up there.

For one, blowing my nose actually appeared to make the blockages worse.

Whether this is due to some property of the cold I had or because it was already up there and I forced it down I don’t know… but it’s most probably the latter.

Nasal spray gave my nose a burning sensation that lasted until I fell asleep and made it very difficult to force myself to breathe through the nose it had so ferociously cleared. It’s hard to appreciate the remedial effects of a medication sometimes when it punishes you for letting it do its job.

Adding to my nose blockages the cough that appeared to be constantly brewing in my throat didn’t leave breathing through my mouth a particularly pleasant experience either, especially when I woke up with a tongue dry enough to resemble a bloated worm in my mouth.

I’m sure this has been an enlightening experience for all of you.

Sunday Hangover: Headache-Inducing Things

This segment is supposed to be a cool-off period for my brain as far as it goes, not that it usually runs hot, but because Sunday is a lazy day, and is often accompanied by that most irritating of self-inflicting headaches. Thankfully the worst hangover I ever had is a good three years behind me now, which puts me in a good place to try and forget that I ever had one so bad that I couldn’t lift my head from the pillow. I never drank by myself in a bar in the Netherlands ever again, and there are many good reasons for that. Truly I am surprised that there wasn’t some sort of center parcs policy against the excesses that I threw myself into, but I suppose as long as you’re giving them money there’s no need to send you into holiday home prison.

Which sounds like just about the worst kids movie you could come up with; then again, nothing’s much worse than the spy kids franchise so it’ll at least look like it fits in with the genre.

I don’t think that I come across as the kind of person who’s a big moviegoer, because I’m not, but I’m pretty sure that if I could be content with paying ridiculous amounts of money to sit in a hall with complete strangers for three hours with soft drinks the price of expensive beers I would be more inclined to hand over my money to cineworld.

But even given all that, I still wouldn’t go to see anything with Zac Efron in it. I’m sorry, I’m sure the script’s very good but he just annoys the crap out of me, and it takes a lot to carry the infernal irritation of High School Musical into the rest of the world by having a face that’s equally as tempting to punch as a class of teenagers singing about their love interests.

Working For The Weekend

Working on weekends… why does it even happen?

Surely the whole point and prestige of a weekend is that you have free time to spend with your friends and family who also conveniently have free time.

Now weekdays are generally accepted as working days and the weekday to weekend ratio is optimally focused for such schedules.

So why is it then that people are so intent on getting you to work on a saturday, surely the epitome of relaxation, the designated centre of free time and general fun, to spend that cooped up in the dark with people who can’t tell the different between a glove and a shoe is a little bit ridiculous.

So in your desperate attempts to retain a social life, juggling between spending eight hours a day doing absolutely fuck all, trying to retain a relationship and keep your partner happy, not killing yourself, trying to see friends enough to feel like you’re not being a recluse, squeezing in driving lessons, writing a blog every day, writing two novels at once, parading around your first finished novel, wondering why you can’t write songs at the moment, going to the gym so you don’t turn into some giant reese’s puff, trying to get some sense of happiness from the little simulators of more exciting universes we call games, wishing that I hadn’t taken a year out of education, hoping that I haven’t forgotten too much of my chosen academic leaning so I can do a job I actually enjoy at the end of this stretch of my life etc. etc. etc.

Maybe that’s just me but my point still firmly stands.

By the time you’re free on sunday everyone’s too worn out to want to do something again and a good percentage of the world has a spiritual belief that prevents them from doing anything productive, which is exactly the point of a weekend, but in their quest for something to do they find that everyone’s massaging their hangovers or cleaning the dust from their wallets they so valiantly flashed the night before, people are waking up with strange people, with strange diseases and strange marks on their frighteningly hairy backs and they get on with their lives knowing they’re doing an activity that Charlie Sheen would give his approval to, and all the while they’re just glad they’re not working on that beloved day.

One of the worst things, at least in my opinion, about the amount of time being drained away and exchanged for money is that I never have time to find something genuinely awful to ramble on about, remember those posts where I got loads of blog views and talked about terrible people doing terrible things and why they were wrong? Well I miss those a little, and without the aid of a donate button and thousands of viewers I’ll be lucky to be doing that again for a while.

Hopefully my book will get picked up in a while and then I can beg all of you fine people to buy it, that sounds like a nice idea.

But make sure you read it on a Saturday, because that’s the ideal day to be reading without a care of the world in your sun lounger.