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?

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