2 more Fridays. 3 more Tuesdays.

Sundays are usually reserved for listening to the Fuck Buttons alone in my apartment in my underwear.

Saturdays are usually reserved for being hung the fuck over and then thinking about the next means to becoming hung the fuck over.  This past Saturday began instead with euphoria and ended as is the norm with the means to becoming hung the fuck over.

“Would you like to go out to dinner with me?  I’ll buy you dinner, and then you can buy me a drink. And then I’ll fuck you.”

Thursdays are usually reserved for a last mid-week hurrah.  For some reason staying up late and fucking around on Thursday night means less because there’s only one work day left.

Mondays are exhausting and the one day I adhere to a strict schedule.  The strict schedule includes touch football, Mad Men, karaoke, and two showers.

“Let’s play it by ear.  Thank you.”

Tuesdays are spent marvelling at the fact that’s only Tuesday.

Wednesdays are spent promising myself that I’ll go to bed early for once.

I have a new assistant at work.  She’s 23, competent, and could be wholly described as “a walking sexual harassment suit.”

Two Fridays ago she brought me strawberries.

Fridays are reserved for thinking about how many Fridays are left.


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