Oh no. What have I done.
I am hanging out of my own arsehole after last night’s drinking. There’s an empty rum glass on the window sill that I must have stolen from the pub. There’s an unfolded lottery slip on my desk.
I drunk dialled several people.
But I am mortified at the text I sent Katy at 4am.
Perhaps the three hour conversation with Phil was also just as insensitive.
Oh no. What I have I done.
I’m not going to be able to forgive myself for this. Here comes that cold, militant, heartless inner voice to remind me. Like an abusive step-father that’s cracking his belt, that voice is coming for me.
I’m going to get it now.
Luckily, one of my drunk dials, Fatimah, called me back. She’s driving down to meet me, and we’re going out for food together. I called her because she was someone I didn’t feel at peace with, which was kind of the theme of those calls. I hadn’t spoken to her in over a year, and honestly thought something had happened between us that meant we’d never speak again. Thankfully, no love has been lost, it would seem.
The Sarah Project 