dear weekend,
give me back the things you take and take and take. and thanks, seriously, thanks. she drank her beer well. i got new nicknames for the B.O.T.H.(back of the house) and a motto(we run this shit). nic is now nicolas, man of science. i am now simply "quality control". i also saw this fight, which im blaming all on you. good thing those two bothered to roll thick. because thats how i do, or not at all! o and then not only did you compel me to mix strawberry juice with whiskey, you had me beat EVERYONE's ass in that car bomb speed test. I AM FUCKING IRISH. I AM FUCKING ITALIAN. so dear weekend, get bent. i know it was you who made those 2 girls fight. i know you added the 3rd one just to get them to fall over in a mess of heels, taking out that entire table. i know it was you that made them make out. it was cruel, having forced that fat kid to watch it all. he kept mouth breathing and he was sweating all over everything. i am however grateful, pleased as punch. i ate pork twice in only 3 days. TWICE! and then i saw my nana, and i know it was you who made her ask me why i wasn't married yet. i know you made her tell me im getting old. i know you then made her forget all that and re-ask me both things over and over all through lunch. you pulled my clothes off in some unexpected ways. you put them on in some even more unfamiliar ones. you bit me. burned my fingers. surprised me in texts. reminded me of some things i'd forgotten. made me laugh at my own jokes. like that one about telling a girl i was writing a screen play when she asked what i do. "Whu z ab-owW-tuh"... "its a screenplay based on Oregon trail." that was actually kind of great of you, dear weekend. between the cordova wolf and text based pioneer role-playing im finding it hard to hold a grudge on the other things. wait, honestly. weekend. dear sweet weekend. darling. comrade. captain. sweet, sweet-heart. i forgive you weekend. i want to have you babies. i want to punch you in the fucking mouth. rock you to bed. paint your fences white.
dear weekend, i want to laminate you, and carry you with me wherever these fucking weekdays try and drag me.
you are my secret. my first impression. my waves. my overcast in a warm bed. i are yours. i are. i are.
sincerely, humbly, brazenly yours,
b
Brilliantly funny and perceptive take on the stale "What I did this weekend" post.
ReplyDeleteThanks!
Jessica
Can I respond to this and somehow make it valid enough to be called homework? I feel like the creative artistic nature of a potentially boring post is worthy of some response. In truth, what's missing makes it intriguing.The lack of explanation and wholesomeness leaves more to be desired. I suppose that's the most thrilling part of the artistic experience, desire. The feeling of want, whether it's wanting a character to achieve or fail, wanting a dance to reveal it's emotion to you, wanting to understand and blah and blah and blah.
ReplyDeletechaos to snarky exhaustion--> what dreams are made of.
ReplyDelete