the point

The problem with Sundays is that Mondays come right after them, forcing you to optimize being irresponsible and care-free and restful and take as many deep breaths as possible out of the office and just not think about work and consequences during Friday nights. That way, waking up on Saturdays is an event in itself: double hangovers, where'd I put my things, I'm just glad the week is over, and you get to reflect about your work which isn't so bad as long as you're not in the office, and the workweek is rotten only because you're a vegetable 24 by 7, and suddenly a jolt—tonight is all I have because tomorrow is the last day before everything begins again.

Damn you, workweek, sumpain ka even. You hear? The Sisyphean loop of things. The suffocating nearness of it all.

I object to peace of mind and fun and mental renewal with a consume until tag on it. It's not right nah-uh not right. The peace of laundry-day Sunday is not too far from the peace enjoyed by a man to be hanged in the next half hour.

I want longer weekends. You hear? I want them stretched. I want the end of fun deadline extended, moved away, far away, as far as I can throw it, out the window even. And while you're at it, wash my other teddy bear. It's beginning to go dark brown on me again.

At least I get to see my wife sleep on weekends, curled up in a blanket, pristine and ageless. If there are hints of wrinkles on her, it's not her fault. I put them there.