A lazy day and scattered. A general unwellness. I tend to feel like this after stag parties, though this one was tame by comparison with Johnny's in Liverpool and Owen's over in Galway.
I think I need to stop drinking.
I drink no more nor less than the next man, though the next man is usually lusty for pints. That bastard Irish condition, where you'd sooner go sipping than make your way to Glendalough for a wander, or Stephens Green for a good old sit. Put me in Nearys and I'm a happy man for the duration, put me in the Stags snug with Skehan and I'll show you contentment.
But the next day is always remorse.
I've long since stopped the phone calls, in my cups, to some soon forgotten missus, but I still text.
They're never sloppy, I keep my diction, but I look at them the next day and put my head in my hands.
"What was the bad thing?" I'd say to myself, or to Johnny, before that horrible dawn of realisation. Checking the phone like that lad in the Diageo ad, only I'd have no messages received, just sadness in the Sent Items.
I'm turning 30 soon, and I think there's a lot more out there than that fucked up Friday feeling.