Friday, the sanctimonious day of the grind slave.  The early dawn of week’s end. The invoker of early leave and diminished ambition. All things of consequence can be left to Monday.

Monday, the most discordedly vile of days in the modern cycle. It’s Monday that results in Sunday whining about preparing for the week and thus wishing that Saturday would not end.

But Friday! Friday, the cycle is nearing it’s momentary end. Day’s conversation spouts childlike hope to do, attend, accomplish, visit, start, challenge, sleep. Indeed, there’s a special place in hell for those who commit such mortal sins as scheduling meetings, make things due or otherwise subtract from, not just the weekend, but interrupt the brain from it’s musing on the great escape from the office, the job site, the boss.

The weekend is sacred.  The weekend is where we are human again. Human in all our glory and all our realizing that many are no longer 23. Too much weekend indulgence causes us to remember that from a couch or church pew in a cotton mouthed fog. It feels to be human and not a cog in the office wheel. A cog in the industrial wheel of fortune trying to see how much ice we can sell to the Inuit. With global warming they’ll definitely be in need sometime. So we slave.

Oh Friday! Why can’t you have a cute twin? Why can’t you be less plentiful in working hours more abundant in and evening sunshine and twilight. I will take what I can get though. Sipping my coffee, a little later to arrive to my mine. A little less concerned with the ore and the minecarts and a little more content to let my candle burn in its reflector and take everything in.

Friday, I’m glad you’re here.