sebastian6

The beloved Friday night gathered around me, I slink upstairs after a too-early drunk and sober up post-pizza. My pal Mike came by and I showed him something funny and something creative. Friday nights are strange little resorts of time. One is possibly tired from working yet, more than likely, wanting to take hold of the notion of the week's end. Usually this involves some sort of faux celebration or party often involving alcohol or drugs. Perhaps one is a bit too eager to genuflect before those time-tested rituals. Perhaps he finds himself looking up at the clock in hazy astonishment reading the numbers 930 on the gray plastic atomic clock purchased at Sam's Club three summer's ago. Perhaps he uses gratuitous information in exposition to cover for an uncreative state of mind (wishing to sound poetic and flowery but currently without the tools to properly do so).I'm already sobered up and ready for part two of my night which may or may not consist of listening to the final part of Chuck Palahniuk's Haunted audiobook, hoping to be done with the whole bloody mess. And I'm not being metaphoric. Or is it metaphorical?

My head started to bleed today and I was hoping nobody would notice. I reached up and soak my index finger in the small pool that had collected after a scab or flap of some sort was unconsciousely removed. "How ya like me now?" I said to my head. My head said nothing. Two kleenex and a Smiley-Time Joe(tm) later, I was a new man, flittering about in a ritualistic dance of business-speak and meetings, with a nod toward perceived destiny. I pushed buttons and signed papers and was paid by the corporate office as a reward. It was Friday and the world was open before me like the opening night of a musical or an unexpected inheretence. I doled out the hours on a friend that had not visited in a good while.

Now I sit here in front of my computer, having pulled my wild white child of a cat off of the cat called Po. What a fuss! My cat just wouldn't let up from his war cry, and there's old Po without claws trying to run away. I grabbed my cat just as he was chasing her under the bunk-beds. I put one hand full around his mid-section and he turned to scratch me, not knowing who it was. Once he saw me he relented. I threw him on
the bed with a gently rough bounce and told him to mind his own goddamn biznuss. And believe me you- I've had to keep my eye on that little rapscallion all evening.

So perhaps I'll listen to more about Palahniuk's tale of pointless destruction and drink my Propel(tm) and stretch out on this lonely old bed as my evening on my own draws to a slow close. Hmmm.