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.

But what am I complaining for? My colleague puts it succintly: “You need beer, xpyre”. I need beer? A beer transfusion. A beer in the belly.

(I shall take a moment here to reflect on how some of my “friends” are all caught up in such bourgeois activities like fucking wine tasting (!) and cigar smoking. Hullo? No, really dudes: hullo?)

***

I feel like a meek Peter Sellers right after an enraged but silent Gen Jack D. Ripper extoled the virtues of rainwater and pure grain alcohol. A lamb to the slaughter or a witness to a train-wreck. All this apparent exuberance at work is indicative of something rotting at the core. Not my core, of course, I’m not that self-reflexively melodramatic (uh-huh — ed). It just feels wrong. It feels like that sense of unease that creeps up your spine when Haley Joel Osment says, “I see dead people”.

Only, I don’t see dead people, I see people who look like dead people. So much for deep, insightful thoughts.