a saturday story

May 15, 2010 § Leave a comment

It’s the melody we all know.

You wake up and you are hurting. Was it the beer? Was it the wine? The high heels? The concert? The boy?

It’s a repeated pattern of grabbing the first bottle at 7pm only to be done with drinking at 5.30am. Most appropriate. You look like hell, your eyes are puffy, your legs sore, your heart is heavy and your stomach definitely despises you. No matter the promises of not drinking, the detox lies, the miserable hours of pain, you can’t stop once you grab the bottle. You can’t stop after the first smile, the first compliment, the first kiss. You can’t stop after the first sip.

You can’t stop after the concert, you grab a friend my the hand, jump in the cab, and drive to the narrow streets of rock music, beers, tasteless cigarettes, a much needed intervention, and many private spillings. The night is over and the other day is beginning to rise. So you pack and go, put yourself to bed, fall asleep to the crowing and the singing of the cats. Wake up an hour late and rush yourself to another cage just to sit and review. Make up your mind about tonight. Some retail therapy would help the hangover. But your cash is out to supply your excessive drinking.

Finish each day and be done with it. I am never done with Saturdays. Saturdays and I, have a history of misery and solitude. Every Saturday is another song of sadness. Nothing changes, everything stays the same. Saturday Syndrome is my Monday Syndrome. You wouldn’t understand. I didn’t expect you to.


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