Sunday daze

This morning I glued a bit of the wood floor that kept coming up.
Then got a little tool with teeth to remove old grouting in the bathroom.
Then hoovered.
And washed the dishes.
Then cleaned my boots, still muddy from that last mini festival I went to; where I threw axes and cracked whips.
Then changed the bedding.
Confession: I got distracted a few times watching stuff on YouTube.
(Mostly rap battles and comedy.)
I then polished various things in the lounge.
Including a glitterball viking helmet my girlfriend made for parties.
Then I washed some clothes.
Seriously, where does all this washing come from?
Later on I had a beer. Camden Hells.
It went down well.
I was meant to see a friend this evening, but with all this hard adulting.
My Sunday had become chores galore.
And my energy was kinda tapped out.
Still, as far as Sundays go, I felt I achieved a few things.
Go me.

FOMO (Fear of missing out)

Saturday night by the by, sitting alone checking your phone with no reply.
You check again and moan and sigh.
It’s your own fault really. You didn’t make plans, you never do.
When the weekend comes around you’re the one that’ll lose.

You could be a rebel and go out on your own, sod your phone you don’t need to be alone, stuck with the incessant drone of the TV.
You need to say to yourself, ‘Somewhere out there there’s a night that needs me.’

But you’re torn. Staying in is easy.

If you go out you’ll have to put on a face and be bright and breezy.
And unless you find some place super cool you know the music will be cheesy.
Surrounded by stuck-up girls and horny wankers and gold-digging chicks trying to bag a banker, you’re a little lost. To your bitter cost you learn you must choose your crowd carefully.
You need somewhere vibrant, interesting and different, with people that are carefree.
It’s such a challenge.
Go too far one way and you’ll be knee-deep in hipsters, unable to manage.

It’s like anything though. If you don’t go you’ll never know.
One of these days you’ll learn to deal with the rudeboys and hoes.
You’ll take them in your stride.
Your ability to rise above it all is like a badge of honour, one you wear with pride.

Yet even on a night out where you’re having a blast there’s a siren call in the back of your mind, like an echo from a distant past.
You should have stayed home.
Was it really that bad being alone?
The enemy, at the end of the day, was that stupid connected device you call your phone.

Like a pocket Jezebel it calls to you and wants you to go out and raise hell.
Playing on your fear of missing out it knows you’ll crack.
But you can’t turn it off or look away, it’s like a car crash and as addictive as smack.

So at the end of this rant is there a moral to this tale?
Is there a way to banish the fear or are you too far gone beyond the pale?
Only you can answer that.
One thing you should know though, whatever you do next Saturday night be at peace with your choice or the fear will consume you, trapping you in a tomb that leaves you in a blue mood.