If only I wore a watch

Sometimes weekends are disappointing.

There is so much anticipation. Coffee Lady asks me how I am doing this morning. My response is that it is finally Friday. As if that actually means something. As if Fridays are somehow metaphysically different than Tuesdays.

I am engrossed in my work. Just need to fix another bug or four. I don’t leave until 7. But I am below my bug number now. This is supposed to make me feel better.

As I leave, a wave of extreme dismay settles in for the evening. I’ve spent the week working for the weekend, but now that it is here, I realize I have nothing to look forward to except a haircut on Saturday. I didn’t take any time to make any plans. And the haircut was actually scheduled six weeks ago, or else I’d have nothing on my calendar.

Just like a Tuesday, I go home to walk my dog.

I know I need some time to unwind, but when I actually have that time, I feel like it is a waste of good life. While I walk the dog, I make plans to take my computer to the local Irish pub where I drink Guinness and eat a pot pie. A faded red-haired man in his mid 40’s makes small talk with me in hopes that I will invite him to my table. Asks what I am writing. The Great American Novel. A piece so moving I will be the next Salinger. I keep writing as he talks. He finally gives up on me. I sip my beer and continue outlining my plot.

But instead of a night out, I unthaw fish sticks, tater tots, and a one-serving dish of cheese and broccoli. I butter Wonder bread with Country Crock and drink an A&W Root Beer. I watch “Stranger Than Fiction” while catching up on my blog entries. My pets are all curled up and sleeping.

I am alone.

Can someone please write me a better ending?

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