#post weekend

Look, I’m not looking at you. Not because I’m shy. I’m avoiding eye contact like it’s a goddamn landmine. Why? Because the weekend vanished faster than my last shred of patience. Blink, and it’s gone. And no, I didn’t enjoy it. I was stuck running errands for family like their personal Uber-slave.

So don’t get me started on that unholy greeting. “Happy—Monday!” No. It’s not happy. It’s not Monday. It’s a cosmic prank designed by Satan’s HR department.

And if you think I’m gonna smile and chirp like some Disney reject? Hell no. I don’t even fucking talk to you like that. So don’t make me start.

Monday? More like “Motherf*cker’s Day.” And I’m just here, pretending I didn’t just survive the hellscape of errands and family bullshit.

So save your “Happy Monday.” I’m busy rehearsing my “Get the f*ck out of my way” face.

Minchia, quanto sono insofferente oggi?! Non sopporto NESSUNO!

Sono stata così bene nel week-end, ero serena e rilassata e mi sono divertita.

This ones based in London not Oxford for a change! Here we go:

That awkward moment when:

Your hair looks weird so you keep touching it all night

your lipstick explodes in your bag on the way to the party so you end up with red lipstick all over your stuff, then your hands, then your face

You try and order 5 tequila shots on the Birthday Boys bar tab only to be told just NO.

Your glass of wine when the tab runs out is £5.10. £5.10!!!!

You immediately break your word not to drunk text your ill friend who wasnt planning on going out.

Everyone tells you that you need to meet someone they are going to set you up with. They are all different people. You get increasingly confused and paranoid.

YOu buy cheap off license wine.

You then shot half the bottle of said cheap off license wine to prove its drinkable.

You then almost throw up on the bus back. You later throw up on your scarf.

You get lost trying to get back to the guest room at your friends and walk in on her brother sleeping. Awkward confused exchange. Run away.

It takes you till the morning to realise your sleeping in doctors scrubs.

Your night wear is definately not day wear. You attract many disapproving looks. Your mother later tells you off for being inappropriately dressed and asks if you want old men learing at you. 

You realise you lost £10 and a single glove.

You get a text from a boy asking you out for drinks. You have the sad realisation this hasn't happened since you were 17 and you have no idea of ettiquete or protocol for these things. You also realise you were calling said boy the wrong name half the time last night. 

You use all the hot water running your hangover recovery bath and so end up having to wash shampoo out your hair with freezing water.

You are still hungover

You about to be force fed cake at your grandparents.

Lunedì = morte cerebrale.