I hate Wednesdays.

It sits smack in the middle of the week like a smirking excuse of a mental marker; not quite the end of the week, and not quite the begining of the week. It mocks you by sitting on the fence, being in the middle, taking no sides - among other creative cliches. It stands like a big, fat Juno with arms on her hips sneering, “You’re not there, yet” in the most grandmotherly-naggy tone (substitute “wife” if married, I’m sure). And this has everything to do with tonight’s programme: it’s drink till you not-quite drop, listen to loud music and make an ass of yourself night.

I’m sitting in the office now with the miasma of my own bodily odours assailing my mostly-blocked nose, contemplating between slitting my wrists or engaging in a more socially-acceptable form of suicide. Liver failure, crossed-eyes syndrome, smelly puke and disgraced name. Oh, the humanity.
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