As my weekend agenda has began to unfold, I'm starting to realize that I rarely ever make Friday night plans anymore. By the time Thursday rolls around, I am nearly crawling the walls with anxiousness for the weekend to begin, that I forget that I have to work the next day.
The last three Thursdays, I've gone out drinking into the wee hours of the night, only to wake up with a full day of painfully boring work ahead of me. Not to mention an excruciating hangover that can be somewhat remedied by a greasy breakfast, which only makes me feel worse a few hours later. I end up having to cancel my Friday Happy Hour plans because the thought of alcohol at 5pm makes me wretch, and all I want is to get home and indulge in a stoned nap. If I'm lucky, I get myself out of bed by 8, shower, and out of the house by 9. But I usually don't even make it passed midnight, when my level of intoxication combats with my desire to fall asleep at the bar. But by Saturday I manage to sleep until 10am (if I'm not awaken earlier by my lively roommates or my internal alarm clock), squeeze a yoga class in, then head to the park for some weekend relaxation. As soon as 6pm hits, I'm ready to rage again (that is, if I haven't already had an early start at the park or at a neighborhood BBQ). Most Saturday's I can make it until at least 2am, which is when the bars close in San Francisco (I know all you New Yorkers and Chicagoans are smirking right now). The best nights are when I'm strolling home and all the bodegas are already closed and the street is so empty that you would think I'm in the middle of a scene from 28 Days Later. Then I know I've accomplished a good night out.
I suppose it works out rather well this way, because I get a day in between each night of drunken stupor to regain my energy. If only I could find some way to balance it all out; if only I only had to go to work every other day. Then the world would be a perfect place.
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