Sundays are for wasting time

I arise in the bleak aftermath of yesterday's activities. I feel irradiated in some nuclear fallout. The sky is white and empty, and my head feels like it's been trampled by elephants. Small, pink, elephants. It is all so tragic. The worst saturday in what seems like an age, and yet I find myself reaching for the vodka. I need to get on my feet again.

It is impossible to express accurately the feeling of utter hoplessness that sundays bring. Everything is dead, everything is twitching in its post apocalyptic death throes. The street is littered with the detritus of the night before; meat and pitta line the gutters - the stench is horrific.

The bombs fell and the street was lined with Road Warrior-esque hooligans, which I studied closely from my window. They were dragging a girl around, she was probably going to wake up tomorrow and regret sleeping with Mel Gibson.

I could not sleep for hours. For the first time in a long line of pointless weekends spent in bed, angrily cursing the television for its lack of stimulating programming, for the first time in a long time I was one of those revolutionary bastards. I indulged in the seemy underbelly of our so-called civilisation. There was nothing civilised about my saturday the seventh of February. I have repulsed myself very profoundly, so that when I look in the mirror, it is not something I much want to look at any more.

Sundays are for wasting time. I have decided that today is going to be an inescapably lugubrious day; the feelings ineffable, the sunlight waning. I am going to stay in bed, and not face the vile repercussions of yesterdays despicable actions.