My day started at 12:45 am. A loud, ripping sound woke me. It sounded like fabric being torn apart. I wish that were the case. The sound emitted came from my dog’s anus spraying diarrhea on the carpet. Welcome to Friday, four hours before your scheduled arrival.
After Eclipsing the hour mark of scrubbing carpet I monitored my dog, Bruce, to keep a repeat occurrence from happening. My sleeping hours vanished, a vapor in a tornado. With little rest, the February temperant provided a few inches of snow for the already icy roads. I battled the poorly cleared path to work. Thank you, four-wheel drive.
At this point, Friday is in its full vigor while I find my glass-half-full (Notice my optimistic viewpoint). Sleep-deprived, I face a day of banal conversations (Think anecdotes of laundry, kids to school, the weather and TV viewing of the night prior), menial tasks for a crippled body, and being stashed away and forgotten. Let the colloquial language commence with tales of infidelity, inebriated depravities, insubordinate heroisms, and other chicanery painted as good deeds.
It’s all designed to help the self-esteem of the storyteller. I listen and nod when appropriate as I imagine sinkholes, spontaneous human combustion, asteroids, and all their destructive brethren.
I live in a Loverboy song, and I just threw up in my mouth a little as everyone walks around, saying, “It’s Friday.” I loathe Friday. Really, I hate Monday through. But Friday takes the prize. All the drunkard degenerates embody this agitating nervous boisterous energy. It’s like they can already taste the 30 pack of Natty Lite. Who knows, maybe God will help them get out of a DUI this weekend.
So forgive me if I roll my eyes when I hear, “Thank God it’s Friday,” I don’t feel it. I hate Friday more than Monday. But Saturday… That is a day.