Is it just me or has life become a singular struggle to get from one 5PM clock strike, to the next one the following day?
No, it’s not quite five yet. Four thirty-two to be exact. As you can tell, I’m counting.
Weekends are the worst. Weekdays I’m regulated by the fact that I’m physically not in possession of an inebriation inducing intoxicant. I walk to and from work. When I arrive home—yup, at approximately 5:00:00 PM, I head straight for the bottle. Am I sick? Probably. Do I care? Fuck no.
So what? It’s the grind. The slog. The dirge that I march to for hours, days, years on end. It wears me out. A shot and a beer (a quality beer, mind you) and I’m fine. For an hour or two. And then the clock starts ticking again…
On the weekends, I force myself to hold the floodgates back until the appointed moment when the Fred Flintstone whistle would have blown, had this been a Monday, or a Friday. It’s the least I can do.
When is your five o’clock? Do you have one? What pleasure do you restrain from, building the anticipation until it’s just too much to take?