Lest you believe we’ve borne the mantle of a twice-weekly discussion schedule, let me disabuse you of any such fancies. We haven’t. Surely a consistency of this caliber is the stuff of legend, and perhaps one day we shall find the holy grail, but not tonight. When I trudged over to Blogger yesterday evening, I read its refusal to load as a portent of sleep. Its incompetence became an oracle, all wrinkly and shit, and I looked hungrily into its telltale waters.
But it’s working now, and even with this change of fortune I bid you good night.
Monday, well, here’s the thing of it. You can try to fight, try to outmaneuver the colossus, shore up against the inexorable, but in the end you’re bound for disappointment. Its teeth will seek and eventually find purchase in the fleshy part of your ass, wriggle as you may, and that’s the end of it–your tickets for Sunday Dread just booked themselves.
I’ve taken the advice proffered by peer and kin. Perhaps you likewise subscribe to some of these. Arrive early at the office. Eat a healthy breakfast. Work weekends. Do those morning stretches. Meditate. Pray to the heavens most high that maybe, just maybe, you won’t want to hang yourself come 10:30 AM. Helpful all, in their own small ways, and I imagine the sum total is worth something too. But in the end, Mondays still seem to prevail.
It’s entirely possible I’m overlooking some kind of secret Asian herbal remedy, however, drawn from stores of ancient wisdom calling for a mixture of two parts lotus seeds and one part opium and three parts tiger testicles. You know, that one. The smoothie that is my birthright. Until I discover such a thing, I’ll content myself with the best poultice available: tuning my expectations to embrace Murphy’s Law fully and keeping alert. Sometimes I find I’m pleasantly surprised.
Buried deeply in the hearts of men is the belief that anything can be fixed, provided the resolve is fresh enough, the will set enough. That’s why Home Depots exist, I think. Previously I had looked upon them as depots of boredom, large warehouses filled with sundries useful only for constructing, I don’t know, shelves or something. What do people buy there, anyway? Tape? Hinges? S-s-s-screwdrivers?
I rescind this position, however, because lately I’ve heeded the call. There’s a toy store sensibility to the place, and for the briefest moment I considered owning a complete power tool set, the rationale for which I can’t fathom. I could see the set, you know? Hanging neatly across a wall. In the garage. All told, though, I’ve only bought an extension cord and a two-to-three prong outlet converter.
A few days ago, my air conditioner began exhibiting strange behavior. Parts of my apartment were humid, while other parts were cool–some real ley lines shit going on, understand, which I tried to fix using a complex system of levers, pulleys, and cardboard. Mainly cardboard. The results were mixed at best, so I went to bed dejected. The unit, bless its decrepit mechanical heart, chugged along smoothly in the morning. Sometimes, you just have to sleep it off.