Saturdays are weird when you’re sober

I didn’t think I wanted Saturday mornings and now I have them they make me anxious, really.

A former Saturday morning — if good — would involve a trip to the corner shop in some capricious tracksuit based get up. Home with a cacophony of bad for you bollocks a kinder bueno, dr. pepper, pot noodle, orange luco still and sparkling etc.

A bad one, strung out on sorrow & loneliness I cause a fight because I feel abandoned. With a certainty of entitlement usually the preserve of children I’m digging my heels & my nails in, like a dick head. This is not because I’m hungover. Not because I’m still drunk. This is because you don’t love me enough, which is not because I’m hungover not because I’m still drunk.

Either way, either morning my head & myself are in a fishbowl bumping around pretending I know what’s what & pretending my drunk ass has every right to be there, in my home, where I don’t feel like I have a right to be.


Since splitting up with my fabulous monster I realise that I liked Saturdays being off the table. What I do on Saturdays is be hungover — top third peak of my face, mouth, nose, brow permanently furrowed & hot — spacey vibe — eyes don’t look like my own. I never took a pain killer in some belief that I didn’t deserve relief. That’s the fabulous monster: you don’t deserve relief. Angry & sad, nauseous ┬ásometimes hysterically giddy — that was really good — especially with friends. I’m making jokes so that my sense of self can quietly shuffle out of the side door.

But I only rarely puked so I thought ‘this is not harmful, this is not bad & anyway, you don’t deserve relief.’

My first Saturday sans my fabulous monster was tricky because I was on my own. My M.G. wasn’t there & neither was my H.O. I fled back to old habits: food, screen, but with this new instagrammable veneer of agency & taste. So I’m Sixteen Candles & a fish finger sandwich, black coffee & a box of raspberries (CF. Proust) — Fabulous — in bed — Monstrous — still got it.

Its been over five months since I’ve had a drink but the fabulous monster & I are finding new ways of jiving. So this is another weird Saturday sober, not hungover and I’m picking up my pen (as I’m sure you can imagine, I draft in script) because I’m anxious & I’m also not but also because I miss my capricious tracksuit moments and from that loss, I deserve relief. So I post on my fucking blog. Very millennial. Very 30 something femme. Very on message. No promises.


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