What a week. Aside from the usual Sunday spent lamenting a laundry list of choices, I don’t really have any plans this weekend. Kinda sucks. Well, that’s not completely true. I’m actually going to get really fucked up this weekend.
It’s Friday afternoon and things are pretty much dead around the office. This place has a way of making a man question the decisions he’s made that got him to this point, but it pays the bills. I just took a sip of cold brew coffee I purchased over three hours ago. Most of the ice cubes have melted, and the taste was less than pleasing. I don’t care. I’m going to get fucked up this weekend.
We have a weekly Friday afternoon meeting that’s referred to as “The Weekly Wrap” on my calendar. It’s customary for me to prepare a loose presentation of all of the client encounters I had throughout the week. My supervisor is in Oklahoma for a wedding, and I will not be preparing anything. I don’t care. On the off chance that I am called upon to provide this information, information which serves no other purpose than to prove that I didn’t just sit at my desk jacking my dick off all week, I guess I’ll have to wing it. I don’t care. I’m getting absolutely destroyed this weekend.
I usually leave this place at 4:30 on Friday. Not today. Today feels different. Maybe it’s the changing of the season, or the utter contempt that my peers have for their husbands, wives, kids and lives in general, but this place has a sense of desperation permeating through the walls. That’s why I’ll be walking my bitch ass out of here at three. I have things to do that don’t involve half-truths, false pleasantries and gossip. I have to begin getting fucked up.
First, I’ll swing by the liquor store on my way home. I’ll grab my usual, Woodford Reserve, and stand in line with three other gentlemen who are adorned in signature label button down shirts with fly collars loosely tucked into expensive dark denim that were picked out by a girl from the past whose memory just won’t fade away. Casual Friday. Yay.
After I make my way through the door of my loft-style apartment, I will immediately turn a cable news network to hear two pundits trade talking points with one another. I don’t necessarily care for the debate, and I’m generally disgusted the modern state of media, but the sound of voices emanating from vessels that are more dead inside than I am at this point is comforting. Maybe it’ll take my mind off of her. Guess it’s time to get fucked up.
My shirt will be untucked as I remove a lowball glass from the Martha Stewart Collection that sits between a measuring glass and a faded plastic cup from Bedlam Bar-B-Q. I will then reach into my freezer and grab a handful of ice, roughly four cubes, and drop them gently into the glass. The sound will trigger a release of endorphins into my body that hasn’t been felt in days. Maybe weeks. As I remove the bottle from the brown paper bag, I’ll remember the coldness in her voice the last time we spoke.
After my first sip, I will take my iPhone off of silent and begin to sort through the clutter of my group text. In assessing potential plans for the evening, I will consider which people will be attending, where we will be enjoying dinner, and what group of friends will help me forget. At that point, I will weigh going out with staying home and enjoying more Woodford Reserve alone with poorly rolled joint and Shark Tank. I bet I end up leaving this place. Either way, I’ll be getting fucked up.
Time to pack my things. I wonder where she’ll be tonight? .
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