Hungover without the party

I definitely woke up on the wrong side of the bed today. You know that feeling, when you’re moving that much slower than everyone else? And all you want to do is to tell everyone to slow down and chill the f#$% out. It’s loud. Everyone’s IQ’s seems to have plummeted over night. Nagging seems to be on everyone’s agenda. The only solution, short of stabbing everyone, is to disappear.

But you can’t.

Procrastination seems to be the only solution, since you just need those 10 minutes to yourself that will help you gather your thoughts and get focused. But then 5 o’clock comes around and you realise you haven’t done jack-shit and you have briefs and reports and material to deliver and you start to rush to get a work’s day done in under an hour. You start sprinting to keep up with everyone else and you trip and fall and you’re bleeding, but no one cares to help because you’ve been rude and asshole-ish to them all day. Then you go into panic mode and freak out about all the things that need to get done, when finally someone comes to your rescue and helps you get organized.

To do list:

  • Send such and such to so and so
  • Brief in what not and the other thing
  • Send the final thingamabobs to Ms. Important Client

It’s now 6 o’clock and everyone’s gone home, and in the calm of after-hours you finally get down to finishing up your work. You pull out that nifty little to do list that your colleague so graciously helped you organize and realise that the work you need to get done will, in fact, only take an hour. But you spent that last hour you had losing your shit, so now you can’t get home on time.

(This may start to get predictable) At any rate, allow me to proceed.

You get online and bitch to a friend about the tampon of a day you had, and how everyone’s gone home but you’re stuck in the office finishing up things that no one would help you out with. Your friend (trusting that this is a near and dear pal that’s got your back and would never tell you what a f#$%-up you are) fuels your fire and gives you the advice you’ve wanted to hear all day:

“F$%# it man, go home.”

Smiling and with a feeling of self-righteousness, you slap your laptop shut and leave for the weekend.

“Regrets? I’ve had a few.”


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