Whilst I basically understand the sentiment behind the cliché that is “Thank God/Whoever/Expletive It’s Friday” it’s become a trite tape loop delivered alleged pleasantry of “Have a Nice Day” proportions. It’s like “What did you get up to at the weekend?” generally delivered by somebody whom, with all and any due respect, has no real business of knowing. This faux bonhomie irritates the eff-word outta the cut to the chase philosophy that drives me. If I want to convey my activities to someone then I will, but shall not, almost never, yatter my brains out unnecessarily, to a point that to some - getting “information” from me might be akin to extracting teeth. What’s wrong with me? Well, the only folks really qualified to have an opinion on that are my therapists that operate out of a practice on Anza in SF. I’m down with their findings and scientific methods of measuring such activities. I’m not sure anybody else would have the technology.
That said, Friday is the gateway to a few hours when my open plan goldfish bowl hell recedes without the aid of pharmaceuticals. Particularly inspiring on a clear, cold day like today. For something like forty hours, my purgatory doesn’t exist. The spectre only looms after 5pm GMT on a Sunday and at this point that’s pretty far away. This afternoon has been productive because I’ve been to the bank, had a conversation with one of the old guys that runs the local museum here in town, got a haircut and made the tea prior to switching this blighter on. Hopefully I’ll hook up with two of my Punk Kongress chums in Edinburgh sometime tomorrow and all will be as well with the world as I’ve come to expect of late.
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