Sorry Weekend, I’m Sitting This One Out
So, I know it’s the weekend and I don’t want to trash-talk Friday while it’s staring me in the face; it’s just that I kind of… don’t… care? I know, I know. The work week is over and I should be somersaulting out of the office while giving my boss the finger as Rebecca Black’s pièce de résistance inexplicably echoes through the hallways but right now, I don’t have the energy to care about what day of the week it is.
Let me drop a little truth bomb on you. I’ve already lived through approximately 1,350 weekends. That is more weekends than I know what to do with. These things lose their zest after a while, you know? I can barely muster up enthusiasm for my own birthday, and I’ve only had 25 of those — how am I supposed to get excited each and every weekend? It’s like, I’m supposed to go apeshit and wear sequins ’cause Friday decided to show up… again? How can I miss you if you never go away? I don’t mean to be a killjoy, but how many weekends does a bitch need?
Don’t get me wrong — the weekend is nice and all. If the weekend’s car broke down on the side of the road and I were driving by, I’d stop and ask if I could do anything to help. I mean, that would never happen, because I don’t know how to drive, but you see where I’m going with this. If the weekend were struck by a car and I were the only witness, I would call 911. Damn right, I would. Because the weekend has a place in this world, and god strike me down if I think we should do away with the whole thing entirely.
No, I agree that the weekend is perfectly likable. If I were to throw a party and invite 50 of my closest friends, I wouldn’t mind if the weekend showed up as somebody’s plus one. But for chrissakes, I’m not gonna throw a goddamn parade every time it arrives. Where did these lofty expectations come from, anyway? Certainly not from the weekend, I hope, because that would indicate a pretty egregious case of histrionic personality disorder and I’ve got enough of that nonsense to deal with as it is — not to bring my estranged aunt into this — but really, there is such thing as too much histrionic personality disorder.
Anyway, that Andrew WK-themed blacklight party sounds great; and marching in the Guatemalan Day Parade promises to be a blast, I know. You’re right to suggest that it would be nice to get out of the city for a few days, to get some fresh air, to peep some stars or deer or other things you forget exist when you never leave the city. Your co-worker chose a great venue to host her 30th birthday party, and yeah, a gal would have to be off her rocker to pass up the opportunity to partake in an all-you-can-eat taco night sponsored by some Tequila brand I’ve never heard of. How, how could one deny that the weekend and its offerings are the highlight of every week, a highlight worthy of excitable status updates and unmitigated enthusiasm?
Like this: today, I don’t give a rat’s ass about the weekend’s offerings. All I want is my couch and unlimited documentaries about women who kill. That’s it.
See you next weekend?
Experiment so you know exactly what you want, but keep your number low.
Go break a leg!
…Why? Because JAMES FRANCO, that’s why.
Until this year, I’d always though that my depression wasn’t really “depression,” but more a product of me being anxious and unhappy in my (static) environment.