Rot in Hell, Friday.

I'm gonna call today 'Fuck Off Friday'.

I'm sick of everyone being elated with the fact that it's Friday. Big fucking deal. Like the women in Customer Service have these big, exciting plans for the upcoming weekend that they just can't wait to get to. I know, I know, the Ocean State Job Lot can be a sick way to spend a Saturday, what with sifting through the racks of third-hand dresses and someone's Dad's, Dad's, Dad's smoking jackets. Here's what will really transpire in your weekend, Judi. You'll go home tonight to do the usual Friday night rituals of ordering nine pizzas and plopping yourself in front of the newest Pixar movie to come out on DVD. Sweet. Somewhere over the course of the night, you'll make popcorn. You'll melt enough butter to drown the entire population of Guam, but this in only to offset the aftertaste of ball sweat in your mouth because you lost the 'who-can-eat-more-chicken-wings-in-thirty-minutes' bet with your husband. Problem is, he weighs somewhere in the vicinity of a kiloton so the duck butter really builds up down there. Then you'll make your way up the stairs to bed, a process that takes upwards of 45 minutes because it's a loooong way up to that 12th stair, you'll forgo brushing your teeth because you're so winded from climbing the stairs and you'll finally go to bed. Sounds like a real fucking hoot.

My problem with Friday is this: I'm always looking forward to the weekend (or working for the weekend, if you will...nothing like a Loverboy reference here and there) but it goes by so fast that come Monday, my hangover hasn't even had time to process the headache and greasy food cravings. It flies by without mention of wishing it could stay longer and then there I sit, in my leather chair in my ample cubicle, staring Monday in the face. This weekend promises to be no different. I'm taking it easy tonight in preparation for Richie's birthday celebration tomorrow night, which will lead me into Sunday where i can occupy my time doing laundry at my folks' house and when I'm done, I can come home and go to bed and wake up on...you guessed it, Monday. Some break from the work week, eh? Fuck that. My buddy Roy ( I love using 'buddy' in reference to 60 year-old men) in our cafeteria lent this idea to me this morning: he's working on a scheme to reverse the weekend/workweek layout, wherein we'd have a 5-day weekend and a 2-day work week. Nothing for nothing Roy, but if you figure this out I will name all of my children Roy, in your honor.

I'm really just in a bad mood today and I'm taking it out on the weekend. It's nothing against every other weekend, just this one in particular. It's been a bad week and I spent the better of yesterday being pissed off something that is allegedly nothing to be pissed off about at all. Although I shouldn't complain, because I'll be halfway to LA come this time next Thursday morning. I'm sure this weekend will be a hoot and I really am looking forward to blacking out at Ned's tomorrow night. My only suggestion for the attendees who will read this is: please, no back-to-back-to-back-to-back Jameson shots like last weekend. Try to understand the timing of these things and space them out. Otherwise, Kristin and the Noise becomes Kristin and the Induced Spins very quickly and I don't want to lose my coat check ticket again. I promise not to Irish goodbye, Rich. The threat of your doom-infused text messages are enough to deter me from that (the last time I did this, I was encouraged to drink poison, among other things).

Enjoy the weekend, everyone.