Another Sunday

Sunday is the day for rehbilitation. For putting back all the bits you took apart last night when you were puking your guts out over the toilet. Lying to the guy trying to help you that you'd drink your water and eat the yogurt as soon as he goes back to his card game. You can hear the others talking about you. How you should have known better. When you raise your head, a wave of naseua hits again.
On Sunday, you try to let that go and with newfound optimism clean your apartment's debris with the bright shiny feeling that "Yes, you can get through the next week" and "Yes, you'll take better care of yourself."
Before the debauchery of Saturday night was Squash, and learning to like a new person, and dreams of the far off future playing basketball or tennis with your father. At a ripe age, but still healthy and vigorous. A jumpshot with good form and a better dribbler than you.
In the meantime, you let go a little bit. Fatty foods, Snickers, and sweet teeth-dissolving Pepsi alongside fruit, chilli peppers, and dental hygiene gum.
You think about a song you used to listen to when you were younger, and see new meaning in its words. Amid the narrative of a failed relationship were the realities of adulthood that are slipping through to you now.
You read about a journalist fighting against censorship in a futuristic city where anything is possible and think about everything you've ever heard instead of listening to.
On the ride home from your friend's place were signs of renewed political conflict, closed streets and vendors selling red shirts and other red-related merchandise. After a long period searching yourself, you realized what's changed between then and now. The last time, you had an opinion.
Maybe you still do. There is an noticeable lack of young faces, students, young urban professionals in the crowds.
Your friend has recently sworn against rehabilitation Sundays, desires a change in his life, and repeats this desire as if to convince himself before four beers and authentic margaritas change his mind.
At the train station, they were filming a music video and wanted you to participate, and you immediately felt regret as you refused. The girl who asked you looked dissapointed, but easily found an over-eager participant, delighted in the chance to be a part of the country's culture he was travelling in.
You tell yourself that you want to be on TV for the right reasons, but the regret still pains you.
This is a good Sunday. On a bad Sunday, you risk doing the same boring things you did the day before, struggling for something to hold your interest and yet still appeal to your drive for self-improvement.
This is an acceptable way to spend a life. Maybe even an encouraged one. On a seven day week, Thursday is the worst day. Saturday is hopefully the best, and Sunday is your day.