Blah.

I'm hopeless beyond doubt, stroppy beyond reason and lost without hope. It's Saturday, closing in to 6pm and I'm in bed, hanging, and totally exhausted. The very famous "few drinks" last night went out of control, and my ill advised, and yet, note: ignored, taking of antibiotics with copious amounts of alcohol turned out as well as it possible could have. Messy nights are my life lately, oops. I'm lost behind my uni work and I'm just so uninterested in what I should be inspired by. I feel a bit out of touch, with eveything. I've recently just had a catch up with some good friends and discussed booking a holiday, and yet, I don't know why, but my heart isn't in it. Don't get me wrong, I love them, and holidays are one of my favourite things ever, but at the minute, excitement about sunny times seems so far over the horizon. Winter is thoroughly depressing me. I want to hide under my winter-weight quilt and wait for it all to blow over. Uninspired, uncoordinated, unorganised, unhealthy, under-the-influence. Blah. I don't care. It's Saturday night and I'd rather spend it in bed gorging on greasy food than leave the warm and drown myself in more alcohol, but who are we kidding, we all know I will. Exhaustion has set in and it's not great, admittedly. I'm unhappily yet happily mulling everything over. I want to change but I'm not sure what it is that I want to change, if that's even English speaking. As you can tell, I'm still on a drug-and-alcohol-and-caffeine comedown and it's horrific. I can hear Patricia Hodge's voice echoing "SUCH FUN!" repeatedly as I clumsily get ready and get paraded off to the pub rather than turn boring at a mere twenty and stay in on a Saturday night. Now that, my friends, would be sacrilege. 

It's (ALMOST) Friday!

Cue the smiles and sighs of relief right around the country, yes, it's that time again. Almost the weekend. The time off work, school, uni, college or whatever. The time to relax, spend time with loved ones, or just chill. Whatever you end up doing, there's probably nothing better than that weekly countdown to The Weekend. For me, my weekend starts on a Friday. Yeah, I'm one of those annoying people who actually realises that the friday feeling is a very true life-like concept. Well, in my life anyhow. Friday signals the end of work, the start of relaxation, but also, so much more. 

Fridays to me are like the icing on a very, already gorgeous cake. The time for you just to kick back, relax and do whatever makes you happy. My fridays are spent in a mixture of different ways, depending on how I'm feeling. A silly, slightly-in-vain attempt to take in anything during my 1-hour lecture, before that Schools-Out kinda feeling truly takes hold. Pens down people, it's home time. You wish your friends/colleagues/acquaintances a good weekend, and then part ways, released into the weekend, wearing your best smile, or your best dress. After such a time, I'm usually found shopping frantically for a last-minute night out outfit, either for Friday or Saturday (or both, I tend to splurge) or spending my evening in front of the telly, pigging out, maybe a Chinese or a Pizza, some kind of lovely comfort food to end my oh-so-hard week of being a layabout student. 

So, what's in store for this week then? Well, I'm not sure. I write that excitedly, as having no plans on a Friday can be one of two things. Really, devastatingly boring, or, in this case, really really exciting. The world, or in this case, the weekend, is my oyster. It can be whatever I want it to be. While I'm sort of considered a bit of a party animal, sometimes there are days when I just want to stay in, put my feet up, and eat until my heart's content. However, right now, I'm in the mood for some excitement.

Tomorrow may have to be a Going Out sort of Friday. Out of habit, I never usually go out on a Friday night at home. Saturdays are the tradition, the night when the pubs are heaving and everyone is really ready to let their hair down, but the word on the street is this, Friday may be becoming the new Saturday where I live. This is strange, as I usually go out, get drunk(ish) and spend what should be my glorious, day-of-rest, Sunday, painfully hungover and craving my bed. Friday would therefore mean something different. It's like I have an extra day off. Maybe I'm making no sense, but this isn't really intended to be an eloquent piece of writing, instead, a little rambling about how happy I am that the weekend is approaching, and fast. Whatever I end up doing tomorrow (who am I kidding, I'll end up at the pub) I'm sure it'll be wonderful. Minus the inevitable sambuca-related hangover, but yes. Happy days, let's be havin' you.

Bitter timing.

It's barely ten degrees out, I'm wearing two pairs of socks and a stolen hoody that is three sizes too big. Sitting cross-legged on my bed, I stare out of my bedroom window wondering when everything changed. The sky is a murky sort-of grey, miserable-looking even. It's, for want of a better word, cold. Summer 2013 seems to be nothing more than a distant memory and its not even mid-September yet! With cans of Diet Coke and sheer, unadulterated desire to fuel my writing. 

Wednesdays are such glum, confusing days. A break that devides the two "first" days of the week from the others that are merely a countdown to the weekend. But today, it's different. It's as if there's someone up there altering the weather, as if its obvious. [Today is September 11th. You all know what significance that has, I won't insult anyone with a lengthy explanation. I'll just say this; thousands of people lost their lives 12 years ago to the day, innocent people who were only doing their jobs. May they rest in peace, and never be forgotten.] The bitterness is still there, the frostiness just around the corner, a tell-tale sign that winter is approaching. 

Usually, I'd have plans for the weekend right now. As of yet, at *checks watch* 

16:21, I have none. Zilch. This must change as a matter of urgency. Just saying. Weekends are meant to be fun-filled, or in my case, alcohol-filled.

Wasted weekends.

Opening your eyes even just a fraction, and immediately you wince. The light wounds you, it's too bright. No one prepared you for this. Daylight. Morning (is it?) Sobriety. 

Lifting your head off the pillow, everything stars to spin. Your vision is well and truly compromised. Wince again. You're in a lot of pain. It's self-inflicted. You hate yourself for it. That 'it was a good idea at the time' lark. Mindless self-indulgence. Dry throat, severely dehydrated, hot and shivering at the same time. Alcohol is seeping through every pore in your body. You can smell the night before very vividly. Stale perfume, a stranger's aftershave, day-old beer, vodka remnants, chinese or pizza or some kind of takeaway box is strewn across the bedroom floor, half-eaten, grease glistening. Your stomach flips. A distinct stench of vomit and the feeling that you've forgotten something important. You look in the mirror, gawp at your reflection. 

Your face is blotchy, exhausted, worn. You've had the same make up on for about thirty six hours now, and it's showing. One earring in. You're still wearing last night's dress, but it now has a very obvious rip down the left-hand side. You don't know how you got home, or where your phone is or how much money you threw angrily at the barman demanding 'teeeequilarrr!'  Last night was, probably disastrous. Spilled drinks, smashed glasses, arguments and probably very drunk interactions with the entirely wrong sort of people. Waking up feeling like you've drank the bar. Having bad skin days, bad hair days and generally just had days. You feel run down, and tired and just rotten. Bloated, boring, dull, exhausted. Coffee, painkillers and the comfort of your bed is all you need. 

The day seems to last forever, as you struggle to piece together the night before, with the help of texts from friends. The ones you dread 'Can't believe you last night!' 'How drunk were you?' and the worst are texts from unrecognised numbers. You swear under your breath, realising you must've been giving out your number to anyone who'd take it. As for your sent texts, you can't even bare to read them, as the recipients' names are enough to make you want to bury your head under your duvet for evermore. Although you're well aware that hangover cures don't fully exist, you spend the day trying anything humanly possible to rid yourself of The Hangover from Hell, with no luck. Your aversion to anything remotely alcoholic heightens, ironically. Everything is too loud, too fast, too bright. Your senses spend the day attacking your immune system, until you're well and truly overcome by last night's antics. Retreating to bed, earlier than ever before and as willing as a child on Christmas Eve, only without a Santa-like figure. However, we've all got one little consolation, even if we don't remember the little details, and that's the sheer, undeniable hope that it was worth your while. That last night, no matter how many hours you spent throwing up, how bad your headache was, how much money you threw away and how much of an idiot you made of yourself, that for even a short time, it was worth it.

Who are we kidding? We'll do it all again given half a chance.