Drunk Polar BearGod damn. Birthdays. Who’s idea was it to celebrate this shit every fucking year? It should be a day of mourning. One year older, one year wiser, and that year always starts with a hangover worse than any that came before. I’ve been staring at the ceiling for two hours trying to work out how to get out of bed. I used to be able to do this. I remember doing it yesterday. But right now it seems impossible. My phone keeps beeping at me, like a terrorist trying to destroy my half-awake dream-like madness. I live in an attic flat so the ceiling is only two feet away from me. I grab on to it, to stop it spinning. The phone beeps again. I turn and look at it. “Alright fucker, you win.” I say, and reach over and grab it. I have the motor skills of a yeti. I unlock the phone and reality crashes through the screen. It beeps again. “Wake up you sonofabitch!” is what that beeping means.

I crawl, in my underwear, to the bathroom and put my head in the bath. I run the tap and frighten myself awake with the freezing water that pounds my skull. Dressing gown, where are you? You genius brilliant peace of attire. I find it behind the door and climb in.

In the kitchen I fill the kettle to the top. It boils. I make one cup of instant coffee, half full with milk so I can down it, and then fill the cafetiere to the top and sit down with it on the sofa. I put sugar and milk straight into it and drink directly out of the spout.

I turn on the TV but Hollyoaks comes on and blazes its tragic fucking nonsense into to mind just long enough to reinforce the fear I have of bad soap operas. A horrible disdain is awaken in me and I am, by some miracle, prevented from throwing the remote at the TV in a bid to kill the drama (it must be the coffee waking up the normal rational man that dwells somewhere inside of me) and I turn the fucker off instead, like any sensible human would.

I open the laptop and start writing about my morning. And now I’m here, typing. And who is weirder? Me for thinking anyone would find this shit interesting, or you for reading it?

2 thoughts on “A Morning of Disgrace. Happy Birthday you Beer Addled Word Murderer.

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