My weekend? Great. Sure. I did nothing. Nope, nothing.

Friday I left the office, went to the gymnatorium to push things and also pull them and just generally move them around. Then, satisfied with my dumb movery, I went home, bathed, and stared at the wall.

Saturday I awoke from Friday night’s sleep, then later went back to bed, at night. Between waking and sleep was “day.” Eating was involved. Also bathing. Perhaps some reading—who can be sure. A little thinking, breathing, more staring.  

Sunday I woke up again, ate again, bathed again, went for a run through the city to look at all the people leading lives and not, trying to run myself ragged and see how much it would take for me to give up the ghost, as in a ghost-giving kind of mood was I, and then it suddenly somehow turned eveningtide again, whereupon it became necessary to return to bed so the pain would go away and I could slumber like old Rip till all this shit passed and I’d fall into a future where I wouldn’t have to be me anymore and could just be Me.

But then this fine ante meridiem I was jarred from my sub-semi-sort-of-conscious state by a horrible little device known in some circles as a “будильник,” and in others, I’m told, as an “alarm clock.” I prefer будильник because it looks the part. Whatever you call it, the sole function of this apparatus, far as I can tell, seems to be getting me out of bed several hours too early so I can arrive here late and have you ask me how my fucking weekend was. It was great. Talk to you next Monday. If I haven’t by then destroyed my будильник.

I’m kidding, c’mon. Don’t look at me like that. Seriously, it was fine. Got outside a little bit. Went scuba-diving, Maldives, yeah. Yeah, about a day of travel each way. I know, doesn’t leave much. Wore my scuba gear on the plane to save time. Got about thirteen minutes of splashy. Brought back a napkin full of sand, though. I don’t know, didn’t have a plastic bag. How was yours. Good? Good. Oh did you? Sounds fun. Uh huh. Yeah. Never been there. Oh really? That’s funny. Yeah. Mm hmm. Me too. Haha. Good, I’m glad. Huh. Ok, yeah, well it’s Monday. Yes, the weather—it’s weather. Traffic, I know. A lot of cars, moving at slow speeds very close together, sometimes not moving at all, and the honking and such. Probably the weather, yeah. Here we are, yep. Is what it is. Yes, the dream. Living it. Right. What? Oh those? Those are just scratches from where I started to try to kill myself in the parking garage but didn’t have the intestinal fortitude—what?—oh, guts, the guts to do it right. And I would’ve been late for the meeting. I don’t know which one. The meeting. But yeah, could be worse, there’s always next weekend.