Day 26. 63 pages, 30,539 words. Finalising book one, mostly.
Dear Next Saturday Chucky,
I write you this in desperation, through a steady drizzle of cold, rancid alcoholic flop-sweat. My message is as important as it is simple.
When your wife tells you to stop drinking and go home, do as your wife says. This may seem counter-intuitive at the time, and she may even come across as a bit of a bore, or a killjoy. But – and this is important – she is right. She has only your long-term happiness and functionality in mind, she knows your limits and can see the future, and she knows more about what you will enjoy than you do – certainly at this moment, when what you think you will enjoy is a pint of Minttu or six cans of Garage alcoholic lemonade. You are not in possession of all the facts.
Because you, you are an idiot. Anyone who tries to make you keep drinking is an idiot. Anyone who laughs and says you’re pussy-whipped is a particularly impressive idiot, and you are an idiot all over again for listening to them. The only person who is not an idiot, at this point, is Mrs. Next Saturday Chucky. Anyone who agrees with her is an honorary not-an-idiot by extension. The only instance of questionable judgement Mrs. Next Saturday Chucky has ever shown, in fact, has been in marrying you. That is a pretty good track record so maybe it is time you started to fucking listen to her. Idiot.
So please. When Mrs. Next Saturday Chucky tells you to take it easy, tells you to have some water, or even flat-out tells you to go home, do as she says.
I am sending this communication to you because I tried sending it to Last Saturday Chucky, but he is not answering his messages. I think he might be dead.
Very, very sincerely,