Self Inflicted

I’ve gone and shot myself in the foot here haven’t I. Metaphorically speaking that is. I mean I really have gone and done it now.

As you know, I’ve taken the last couple of Friday’s off in a row now, which means that I’ve been able to fully throw myself into Thursday drinking safe in the knowledge that I won’t have to get up to go to work on the Friday morning.

And it’s been great.

As I’ve always said, as long as the scum are absent, Thursday is always the best day of the week, and knowing that the most strenuous thing I have to do the next day is waking up at 12pm and popping out to Waterstones and for something to eat, makes it all the better.

The problem is though (the metaphorical shooting in my metaphorical foot) is that now I’ve gone and spoiled Thursdays for myself.

I can’t get this Friday off for work reasons, and I find myself now thinking, ‘well, what’s the point of going out on Thursday if I can’t properly enjoy it? I might as well just go home.’

(Or the Kings Head).

I’ve gone and ruined what was the best night of the week for myself.

And the worst thing is that I did it to myself. It’s entirely self-inflicted, for before then, how could I miss that which I’d never known.

Why couldn’t I just be happy with what I had? Why did I have to try and make my life just a little more enjoyable?

Oh false economy. Oh Duplicitous outcome.

Why did I twist when I should have stuck?