Wednesday Night Drinkball

There’s nothing less cool than feeling exhausted from hours of not doing a [bad word] thing at all. Not thrilling to chill, steal bandwidth and cable, give shouts to employers and wait for the call. There’s a light shining out from the windowsill not content to project all day long. Maybe I could walk a little to the library. Closed. Maybe I could do this right for once.

Get my ducks in a row and just stop talking trash or whatever they say. Make the bed, sweep the floor, shake the carpet and spray. Put my [bad word] in a pile, on the top slap a post-it, “Don’t worry, someday your skill set will be wanted.” But today everybody is a little tired, it’s Wednesday. So at 10:00 I’m walking down a chilly [bad word] to Broadway.

And it’s you and me and a tallboy of Colt 45 or Bud Light. What’s the cheapest one? Get through one more night. I drink fast, I don’t savor. Each way takes an hour and at twelve, I’ll be gone