Friday was sick.
Not ill.
But sick of being the life and soul of infinite parties.
Everybody wanted a piece of Friday.
Wednesday thought they could steal the thunder with mid-week aperos. Thursday, we all know that Thursday has an inferiority complex.
Folk on Thursday are only really going through the motions waiting for the weekend.
But now, all days were the same, weren’t they?
No school days to mark the regular ones from the restful ones.
And hadn’t society molded the seven day spread into an interchangeable series of schedules and sucky superstitions.
For the zillionth time, Friday slipped into the glad rags, used whatever chemical salves, creams, balms, psalms, cocktails, pills, powders, herbal, hallu...
Anything goes, when ‘anything goes’.
Friday was already thinking about Saturday.
The metamorphosis from all seeing, all conquering party animal, to withered husk, duvet diving, perma-hiding, grimace-wearing hive of embarrassment.
The incrimination of tell-all selfies, the drunk dials, the booty-calls, the unrequited(s) and the undesirables.
The only difference here would be that the whole darned thing would be from the ‘comfort’ of Friday’s own front room.
The life and soul of the party, then.
Superstar DJ, here we go.
