A Timeline Of Your Sunday Scaries

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A Timeline Of Your Sunday Scaries

Everyone knows that the Sunday Scaries have a trajectory that looks somewhat similar to this:


The day is a waiting game. “When are they really going to set in?” you ask yourself while frantically sipping lemon water and filling your brain with pointless dialogues of sitcoms, rom-coms, and football analysis from former players who’ve suffered more head injuries than the girl you saw tripping over her heels walking to her Lyft the night before.

Sundays have distinguished feel and aura to them, and with that comes a consistent inner monologue that continues throughout the day, all beginning when the clock strikes midnight the night before.

12 a.m.

“I’m invincible. Those girls at the other end of the bar? They can’t get enough of me, and they’re, like, eights. Okay, should we stay at this bar or should we roll the dice and try to trade up? Whatever, let’s just finish these vodka-sodas and see what happens.”

1 a.m.

“Fuck, where’d those girls go? Did they just go home with those tools in the scarves? Whatever, I’m just here to get drunk now. What? Did someone say it’s last call? I’m fine. Or no, actually — I’ll take a double-Stoli and soda. Lime.”

2 a.m.

“Surge pricing is 2.5x, fuck. Okay, what are the prices for Uber XLs? They aren’t surging right now. Let’s just get one of those, go home, order some food, and pass out. And yes, I’m 100% positive that the Uber XL is going to be cheaper than the surge pricing. Omar is going to be here in nine minutes in a Lincoln Navigator.”

*8 minutes later*

“Are you Omar? Fuck, alright. Uhhhh, guys, I think I dropped a pin on the wrong block. Fuck. Omarrrrr, where arrrrrrre youuuuuu? Oh, there he is.”

3 a.m.


4 a.m.


5 a.m.


6 a.m.


7 a.m.

“Holy fuck, what time is it?”

*Roll over, grabs iPhone that’s plugged into a charger that’s not plugged into the wall*

“7 o’clock. I’m sleeping for another three hours. Fuck. I might sleep for the entire day. I feel fucking awful.”

8 a.m.

“Okay, I can’t sleep. My head is pounding. I know I don’t have any Advil because I took it all yesterday morning. I need to get out of this bed.”

*Walks over to couch, turns on SportsCenter, cocoons in blanket*

“Is this glass in front of me water or a melted vodka-soda? Only one way to find out — phew, water. Whoever left this here is a saint. Actually, for all I know, it was drunk me looking out for hungover me.”

9 a.m.

*Looks at phone*

“How are there still four hours until football starts? Is this some kind of sick joke? They should have a London game every week and stagger the games throughout the day. We all know the NFL is a bunch of money hungry vultures, so why the hell do they broadcast all the games at the same time? Now where’s that pizza from last night? I’m starving.”

10 a.m.

*Throws up pizza from last night*

11 a.m.

“Do I want to go to brunch? Of course, I do. I’m too hungover to drive so I’m going to con someone else into grabbing me. After all, we’re not not drinking mimosas. Shit. Maybe we should just Uber.”


“Yeah, I’ll have the Eggs Benedict with a side of sausage links. Oh, and can I get another mimosa? Thanks.”

1 p.m.

“Dammit, Eggs Benedict was an awful choice. It’s just sitting in my stomach like a sack of bricks while my chest feels like it’s going to explode from champagne-induced indigestion.”

2 p.m.

“Alrighty, then. Couch, meet body. A little mid-afternoon nap never hurt anyone. Maybe when I wake up, it’ll be the second half of the game and I’ll catch the excitement. Or maybe I’ll just sleep through all the way into work tomorrow.”

3 p.m.

“Holy shit, what time is it? Did I just sleep for four hours?”

*Checks phone*

“Oh, God. It’s only 3 o’clock. I still feel like hell. I would pay disgusting amounts of money to have someone refill this glass of water for me. Whatever.”

4 p.m.

“I can’t believe I’m asking this because I just ingested 4,000 calories at brunch with Stew and them, but what the hell should I do for dinner? I want a nice home cooked meal but I don’t know if I’m capable of doing something that productive without severe help from others. Maybe we should do a family-style dinner tonight with everyone that went out last night.”

5 p.m.

“What is everyone doing right now? How can no one be answering me? Does anyone like me? I guess I’m just going to make something here. Alone.”

6 p.m.

“It’s happening. They’re here. Scaries City, population: me. I need to find a movie to watch — Pitch Perfect? You’ve Got Mail? Cool Runnings? I just need something as mindless as I feel right now.”

7 p.m.

“Did I just scroll Netflix for an entire hour and come up with nothing to watch? I’d try HBO Go but I’m pretty sure I don’t have anyone’s password right now. I’d watch Hulu but commercials are for poors. I wish there was an award show on tonight. Those things always zap me of all anxiety until they’re over.”

8 p.m.

“I’m so tired but I can’t go to bed at 8 o’clock. I don’t know what’s harder to stomach, the fact that the weekend is over or the fact that I haven’t checked my work email since I left early on Friday. Fuck it, I’m going to start a Netflix series and hope it gets me through. Worst case scenario is that I’ll fall asleep during the show and spend an hour fast forwarding tomorrow night trying to remember where I left off.”

9 p.m.

“That was no True Detective Season 1. Nothing will ever be True Detective Season 1. I smell horrible. Have I even showered today? I legitimately have no idea if I showered or not today. Who am I? Oh, I know who I am — the type of dude that spent $40 at a bar last night buying drinks for people I just met. How much did I spend this weekend? Will I ever have enough money to save, or am I just going to spend the rest of my life living paycheck to paycheck? I’d check my bank account right now, but we all know it could send me down a path that I’ll never recover from.

10 p.m.

“If I slug this NyQuil right now, I’ll get exactly eight hours of sleep. Hell, I’ll probably still feel hungover tomorrow. Does this happen to everyone, or am I alone in this world? Oh no, I’m alone in this world.”

*Turns on John Mayer’s version of “I’m On Fire”*

“At least he understands me.”

11 p.m.

“Wait, am I abusing drugs by taking NyQuil to sleep despite not having a cold? What have I become? Who am I? What is happening? Whyyyy? I can barely keep my eyes open. Must. Salvage. Weekend. Must. Keep. Watching. Netflix.”


Image via YouTube

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