Hey, you using that Keurig? Oh, no, take your time. It’s not like my livelihood hinges on the the chance that this sludge will counteract my hangover enough to drag me through the day. But sure, let’s kill this 90 seconds with some small talk. How was my weekend? “Never long enough, Craig,” my recycled answer volunteers automatically. But you know the real answer. You can smell the despair seeping through my pores. I’m at my weakest, and you take this opportunity to strike.
“Tell me about it. I got an oil change, finally got around to cleaning out the garage, and made some progress on the vegetable garden. I feel like I need two more days to relax now! Did you do anything fun?”
Wow, dick. Am I supposed to be impressed? You spent thirty minutes at Jiffy Lube and pulled some weeds. And now you want to know what I did? You want to hear about how I missed the end of the game because I once again overestimated my tolerance for bottomless mimosas, got distracted petting a dog in a brown-out for the entire fourth quarter, and thought the Chargers won for the rest of the day? You would love that, wouldn’t you? No thanks, I’m not giving you that.
Yeah, so my weekend got away from me. I promised myself I would do laundry Saturday, only to resort to my broken zipper pants come Monday morning. I intended to spend that $40 on ingredients for the week rather than three pizzas to share with my friends. I planned on definitely staying home on Sunday to pad the stats on that chore chart my roommate hung in the kitchen. Sometimes execution doesn’t meet intentions, but I can see how you wouldn’t be able to discern that from all the way up there on your high horse.
Don’t get me wrong, I have plenty of weekends during which I behave like a normal adult human. Sometimes I go to the optometrist and drive my friends to the airport. Sometimes I vacuum my stairs. Sometimes I make smoothies with kale and shit. So before you go peacocking around like you’re a god among men, I wouldn’t be so quick to compare yourself to me based on an isolated 48 hours. At least I internalize my self-righteousness like the true fucking martyr I am.
I know you don’t think I’m a bad person. I don’t think you are either. We just happen to be on different frequencies. You can bet the next time I see you walk in with your eyes looking redder and your voice sounding raspier, I won’t guard the coffee maker with my knowing eyes and pointed questions. I won’t tell you about how I went to the gym before 8 a.m. on both days, got my tires rotated, and sent my sister her belated birthday present. We both own these shoes. I just happen to be the one wearing them now.
So go ahead, tell me about how productive your weekend was. I don’t have to care. I know your game, and I won’t play ball. Please seek your gold star and pat on the back elsewhere. Now, if you would excuse me, I need to take a full 60-minute lunch break to inhale and regurgitate a Buttery Jack because unlike somebody, I didn’t have enough time to meal prep this weekend. Sorry, Craig. Sorry for having friends..
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