You apologise to the person in question, who in turn, brandishes you for writing a blog.
You go home, not caring whether taxis cut in front of you, or whether you drive willy-nilly through red traffic lights, open up a bottle of Johnny Walker Red and smash it in your face.
Pass out. Woken by an angel in the form of THird World Ant, who carries you to your bed, phones Small Bum and tells him to come over and look after his inebriated and crying girlfriend, who is crying because she hurt her ex-boyfriend.
Fucked up enough?
When he arrives, cry even more.
Then, in a wierd twist of fate, look after your best mate on Sunday evening, who, after three bottles of wine, pitches up on your doorstep after driving. Shout at him, give him water and make him lie down. Convince him he cannot drive to Randburg in his state, because he wants to go to some Irish pub. Call other mate for back up.
Sit and drink water with him.
Then contemplate how fucked up life is, and thank God for good friends.
And a very understanding new boyfriend, who despite me being impossibly sad and guilt-ridden the entire weekend, managed to get me out of the house and make me laugh.