Sunday Night Fear Factor 

The horrors.

The DT’s.

The heebie jeebies.

Whatever you call them, they absolutely suck balls. There is nothing worse in the world than that cold feeling of dread that you get around 9pm on a Sunday evening.

Work tomorrow. Another week spent in the car going to the office. In the car coming home from the office. Dealing with all the other gobshites on the road, and the petty office politics that drive you around the bend.

Actually, all that shit is just noise compared to the Sunday night fear.

The Sunday night fear is a terrible thing. It can make a young man cry, and an old man cringe. 

Huey Lewis should have written a song about it.

Does the mind not realize that Sunday is a day of rest? You need rest. Especially if most of your Saturday was spent trying your best to put the local pubs out of business.

No, the mind is very active on a Sunday night.

The mind on a Sunday night is like that prick of a loud mouth bully from secondary school. Just when you think you’re able to relax, it roars out an incredibly embarrassing memory from your teenage years. Instead of getting a good night’s sleep, you lie awake for two hours in a pool of sweat fretting about that time you waved at that girl you fancied, and when she said hello, your voice did that cruel high pitched breaking thing that only happened when you were nervous.  

It went from Barry White to Barry Gibb in a split second. Night fever increasing. Sunday night fever.

‘Just allow me four hours sleep you bastard!’, you plead, ‘Four hours is all I ask. I promise, next Saturday I’ll go on a hike, drink loads of water and reward you with stimulating political writings, the music of Enya and a wholesome salad.’

‘Fuck you mate! I know what you’re like! It’ll be a walk to the off licence, cans of some wanker’s IPA, a Wolverine comic, Megadeath and a whole pizza. This is my punishment to you! Now, what about that time in school you split the arse in your pants? Ha? We all had a good laugh at that!’, said the mind.

What was it Freud said about the subconscious?

‘Tis an awful bollox of a Sunday.’

He’s right. ‘Tis indeed.

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