|
Wednsday, Thursday, and Bad Plans before/after So much for Thursdays. Thursdays come and suck all the magic from my life. Wednsday's, too, for that matter. Thursday's of years past spoke of heavy drinking and passing out after everyone had made their peace with the sleep gods. Wednsday's were always a dry oasis in the middle of the week, with the only joy to be had amongst the populous was walking around getting off on saying the 'hump' in 'hump day', as its always a good time to use the word 'hump' as often as possible in public. Of course, there was also heavy drinking on wednsday's also, but usually accompanied with a sheepish feeling of absconding on responsibilities. Thursday is almost the weekend, or is, if one plans correctly. Wednsday is not. But that was a different time past. Today I sat and listened to the rain fall. I made plans. It may have looked unproductive to the untrained eye, but it wasn't. Unless I wasn't serious about things. Then it was a lame fuckaround from start to finish, except for listening to the rain, which somehow in someway feels like forgiveness to me. Planning. Yes. There is something to be said for a good plan devoid of any emotion, as would be attested to by a soul from my area this week. Or would be attested to, if the poor soul had a life to speak of, or perhaps a good ouija board. Maybe a medium. Or me on a good day. Maybe not. That's something else entirely. Anyway, the police call went out and the cops arrived at his house last thursday. In the middle of a domestic dispute over the phone, he had set his house on fire and shot himself in the mouth and survived. The police found him attempting to climb out of a window of his burning dwelling. He died, mercifully, early this week. That's sad. That's low. That is also evidence of a man with a plan entirely marred with emotion, and serves as some sort of cryptic warning I've tried from time to time to understand, something about romanticisim and love, passion, emotion, being balanced against never taking life too seriously. After all, sometimes it just takes a good sense of humor to make it by. But then again, we all have limits, and some of us reach theirs on a bad day, when the wife has absconded with the crystal meth stash and a gallon of cheap vodka to a local fleabag hotel with a random drifter you turned out one night in a rainstorm. He had bad hygeine and the look of him was all wrong. But she loved him, and one step of the creepy plan of your demise was just not enough for all parties considered. Then again this is morbid rambling, and although I am morbid and it fits me fine, is only suitable fare for the pasty faced goth children, who wander the streets and play their nebulous games, calling eachother by names that are both predictable and silly. It does go a long way to explain both about plans and the bummer that is usually midweek. It sucks us all dry, and we are better without it. Indeed. Wednsdays off and four hour seistas everyday. The medeterranean countries do it, why not us? Certainly won't help the imperialist effort. It is worth noting, however, that older nations with significant imperialistc notions landed eventually at the point of the daily seista. They figured out that a daily four hour nap was much more rewarding than the headache of ruling the world. Why not, indeed.
|
