Sunday morning is a sledgehammer, a saguaro to the eyeballs, when you’re a university educated upper-middle class Caucasian first-rate fuck-up like myself. Sunday morning is a long sigh and a low groan, one part hangover one part ennui, neither shaken nor stirred but kept very still so as to minimize the cranial throbbing. Sunday morning is twelve missed phone calls indicating that I have indeed done “it” again and that I will spend all week solving for x so I might apologize properly.
Sunday morning is the very long poem you’ve got to read in tenth grade English class, the one you claimed no knowledge of, and made cracks about just loud enough so the teacher knew you didn’t care, but pieces of it drift back to you years later when you lay your forehead against the toilet seat between bouts of vomiting, willing your mind to be as pure and cool as porcelain.