Sunday Fundays are so bitter sweet. It’s a beautiful day, you’re feeling fresh and you’re surrounded by your mates – it’s Sunday and it’s going to be a funday. The fact that tomorrow is Monday and you have work manages to escape your attention momentarily. You seize that moment like Mel Gibson in Braveheart, taking yourself to the bar to order a round for you and your friends. Don’t bother telling yourself, or worse – telling other people – that you’re only going to stay for one drink. Because you would be lying. You are in it for the long haul and you might as well order a bottle because let’s face it, it will be cheaper.
A good song comes on and by this stage you’re pretty confident you’ve got the moves like Jagger so you get up and hit the D-floor. Turns out, you actually don’t. But what you don’t know (or have) can’t hurt you and your friends all join in so you must be doing something right, right? You grab your bestie and slur how much you love her and how glad you are that you came and she grabs you back and agrees. You start to become aware of the hell you’re creating for yourself tomorrow yet you still stumble up to the bar for another round.
It’s now closing time and provided you remember to, you gather up your belongings and head for the nearest exit. It takes a lot of focus to navigate your way out with all sorts of obstacles in the way such as stairs and giant pot plants but you get there in the end.
Next challenge: find the nearest kebab shop. Conveniently, there is one near by and you march on in and order away. You attempt to pay the man in cigarettes – sadly, that currency is not accepted. You’re beside yourself – since when?! Your friend pays and you and your gal pals find the comfiest looking gutter to park your arses and tuck in. There is no need to worry about calories consumed because you manage to wear most if it, missing your mouth completely.
You’ve finished your kebab and hailed a cab. When you get home you’re starving AGAIN so you rummage the fridge for whatever ready-made snacks you can find – you’re willing to make toast despite the amount of effort it is going to take.
It is finally time for bed and it looks even better than last Sunday – winning! You pass out (literally) as soon as your head hits the pillow, fully clothed with a face full of make-up.
And that is a wrap – another Sunday Funday done and dusted. Just like that. The sequence of events may vary depending on the person – you may prefer a greasy Big Mac instead of a kebab or you might actually have the moves like Jagger. One thing is for sure though – Monday is going to suck big f****** hairy arse balls.
Image found on x17online.com
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