It's Friday

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Friday, Friday

I jolt awake with the sound of a squirrel scrabbling across my roof. It's barely dawn, and though it was chilly last evening, somehow the weather has shifted during the night and my room is humidly oppressive even with the windows wide open.

Friday

The recollections flood me as they do every morning; realization of what I have to face, what's left undone. Loose ends, deadlines, regrets. The things I need to deal with to try to keep it all from falling apart. I take a deep breath, the precursor to a sob, and my breath catches on too many cigarettes smoked with too much whiskey choked down with too much grief. I promise myself, again, that I will quit smoking. For me, for the kids.

Gotta get down

Downstairs. Brush my teeth. It's Friday. Fuck, my head. Fuck, fuck. Why do I do this to myself? Water with ice in it, a cup of tea. I have to wake up the kid and take her to her job if she isn't fired after yesterday. Open the door, go out to the car with the stolen radio. Overdue for an oil change. What isn't overdue?

Down

Once I'm in the car I can feel it. Not the song of the bridges; no, that's not so loud in the summer. Not the lure of the tunnels, because I haven't been to the tunnels for two years and I'm not sure I can go back anymore, maybe not ever again. This time, again, it's the hum of the End of the World, and it's getting stronger, closer than it ever was. North. It's always north. I feel hunted, I feel chased. I want a gun and a supply of canned foods and a full gas tank, and to get on the road, to run, run.

Get down

Some people get their ya-yas at  house parties, bars, or deep dirty fucking a stranger in the alley behind 7-11. I never got much out of that. I can feel it coming on me, breathing wetly down my neck. I can feel it sticky and warm on my back. I need to go, get out of here, find my own personal Tibet where I can hide in the last village  on the mountain before the Chinese government slaughters us. No

Down with

It's not like that. Covered in linen, kneading my breasts, I sit in my Volvo station wagon and contemplate the road. I can SMELL the place I need to be, I want it underfoot. I want to lie down in it, on the moss beside the creek I've never seen. I want my bones to scatter and mold there. My nails dig into the skin on my arms and I press my feet hard against the floor. The road is singing, begging, calling me to press THIS hard against the gas pedal on the roads so sparsely-traveled that no one bothers to patrol them. I can camp on government lands like I did before, I can stay out there for days weeks months on end and no one will know, no one will find me, not even my scattered remains when I'm long done. And everyone will miss me, but not for long because it's COMING.

Friday.

I start the car, and I drive North.

[Doktor Howl]

WOW

You made Rebecca Black not suck for a minute. 

[LMNO]

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

 

[Freeky]

WOW

You made Rebecca Black not suck for a minute. 

Both of these things!!! 

[Don Coyote]

I think you should sing it. Without autotune, unless for lulz.

[navkat]

Wow. I get this. Rebecca sucks more in stark contrast to this.

Some people's Fridays are better than others'.

[Salty]

Hell yeah.

[Cardinal Pizza Deliverance.]

This is awesome.

[Dimocritus]

Wow, this was so good, I might actually forgive you for getting that goddamned song stuck in my head.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Wow, this was so good, I might actually forgive you for getting that goddamned song stuck in my head.

You're welcome. 

[navkat]

Wow, this was so good, I might actually forgive you for getting that goddamned song stuck in my head.

Yeah, man.

The song is part of the insanely maddening absurdity of the thing. The constant running background of some 14-year-old, well-heeled white girl with no concerns other than "partyin partyin yeah" in stark contrast to the real-world desperation in this case is like a Ferris wheel going 90 mph in a fallout zone with "Entry of the Gladiators" playing out of tune.

[Kai]

Fuck YES. I was feeling this.

Especially THIS:

Covered in linen, kneading my breasts, I sit in my Volvo station wagon and contemplate the road. I can SMELL the place I need to be, I want it underfoot. I want to lie down in it, on the moss beside the creek I've never seen. I want my bones to scatter and mold there. My nails dig into the skin on my arms and I press my feet hard against the floor. The road is singing, begging, calling me to press THIS hard against the gas pedal on the roads so sparsely-traveled that no one bothers to patrol them.

That shit speaks to me. I WANT IT UNDERFOOT, I WANT TO BE IT, I WANT IT TO ABSORB ME.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Fuck YES. I was feeling this.

Especially THIS:

Covered in linen, kneading my breasts, I sit in my Volvo station wagon and contemplate the road. I can SMELL the place I need to be, I want it underfoot. I want to lie down in it, on the moss beside the creek I've never seen. I want my bones to scatter and mold there. My nails dig into the skin on my arms and I press my feet hard against the floor. The road is singing, begging, calling me to press THIS hard against the gas pedal on the roads so sparsely-traveled that no one bothers to patrol them.

That shit speaks to me. I WANT IT UNDERFOOT, I WANT TO BE IT, I WANT IT TO ABSORB ME.

EXACTLY.

[Hoser McRhizzy]

Not the song of the bridges; no, that's not so loud in the summer. Not the lure of the tunnels, because I haven't been to the tunnels for two years and I'm not sure I can go back anymore, maybe not ever again. This time, again, it's the hum of the End of the World, and it's getting stronger, closer than it ever was. North. It's always north. I feel hunted, I feel chased. I want a gun and a supply of canned foods and a full gas tank, and to get on the road, to run, run.

Sweet mother of fucking THIS.