Working Man’s Friday Night

Another week has rocketed by in a blur, leaving me with the fairly sublime feeling of not quite knowing what happened. I guess this is not a bad thing anyway because if you’re not having fun, thank Christ that time is actually flying. This sublime feeling is often outweighed however by that blend of sheer fear and overriding excitement on account of  the weekend having brazenly chosen to meet us with its tempting hedonism. It begins to mock on Wednesday usually, from afar, causing the incessant office banter to wantonly and forcefully push a little harder against the fragility of my mental states. Thursday swaggers in like a well-endowed prison mate at shower time, taunting you as he directs his intimidating weapon of fear, knowing with surety that it will happen. He will claim you for himself. The inevitability of it is what get’s you most. You will like it in the way that a cripple likes a wheelchair. It is a forced resignation. It is the submission of will. It is the farewell to restraint. Friday does not arrive but rather permeates the essence of self as if it were invoking the power of the demonic Lucifer. There is no apprehension or fear now, but only certainty. A slightly frighteningly emotional itch tickles, then causes you to scratch until it bleeds. The clock ticks, the cards are swiped, the pay-check claimed and the debauchery begins. What was I thinking of doubting the weekend festivities? Money diminishes, pockets weigh heavy with useless change. Lungs fight for the breath of the week as the recreational abuse punches a little harder, a little deeper, the winding lasts a little longer. Tongues loosen, eloquence departs, offence is caused.

Saturday meets you with amalgamation of memory loss and nausea, obsolete wallets and faded plans. The question lingers, what exactly did I do?