Damned parrots. They're just big, colorful bats. A rainbow of them screeched and squawked as they unleashed an early morning litany on the still sleeping sky. The birds circled in a cyclone outside my window as if directed by the ghost of Hitchcock himself. And then there were the church bells. Clanging and clapping, the bells rabble roused and rang, toppling any chance of rest. A man can get no relief.
Sunday, an alleged day of rest, will be a day of laundry and cleaning. Sunday is the rug under which a week's worth of procrastination gets swept. Sunny Sunday, how I hate you. But I love you, too. For you are the last buttress protecting me against Monday. You are my last day to delay and dawdle. There needs to be a day added to the week, to make things even: an 8th day. It should fall between Saturday and Sunday, and it should be called Funday. I'm sure this isn't an original suggestion; let me check. Interesting. It turns out the Romans had used eight day weeks, but then that prick Constantine came along and decreed that the week should be seven days. There's a fuck up we never recovered from. I want to start a civil rights campaign where we take back the 8th day, for the people. Why did we agree to work five days a week and only have two to ourselves? Granting us another one seems like the morally responsible thing to do. To do otherwise would be repressive and discriminatory, unjustly infringing the freedom of the individual to reclaim what was taken from him.
Ok, I stopped writing this post and got lost in a sea of internet articles. Sorry. My train of thought has been derailed.
Not even Casey Jones can save me now.
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