Friday Night Fights

Well, it's Friday night once again. THE night of the week where we're all too tired to do anything but dream of tomorrow. Because tomorrow is the stuff of dreams. Saturday. Freedom. Liberation from the sins of the workweek. The one true anarchical moment in our sea of troubled discipline. So, tonight I choose for my loud music something by the Pogues. If I must bow to my masters for 5 days a week and spend Sunday trying not to think about the doom looming then, dammit, for 45 minutes tonight I will groove to a band and frontman that encompass enough anger, angst, pathos and downright fantastic talent to fling my soul into a whirling dervish of I don't give a flying monkeyfuck who calls the cops as long as I can piss in my front yard and wiggle my wiener in spiraling arcs of daredevil ne'er-do-well while I swig beer from a sippy cup and think about taping condoms to the front door of the neighboring Catholics. Tomorrow I'll awake and quite possibly regret some (if not all) of tonight's nocturnal admissions. But that's tomorrow. Tomorrow, the day of infinity and brazen nonchalance. When that money in my pocket finally finds a match. When I can't stands it no longer and I just gotta dance.
But it's still Friday. And I look at the clock and see that it's what I would consider late on any other night of the week, because my brain is still twisted around that godawful maypole called Work. I know tomorrow is free even should I decide to go to work. It's still free, because everything I do tomorrow is my choice. No one else's. I can choose to lie on my couch and watch sports on television all afternoon. I can garden. I can hit Big Lots, all of the 99 cent stores. I can take a drive to the mountains. I can scrape the black scum out of my toilet. I can quit smoking. I can quit drinking. I can learn to be more tolerant of my friends. I can become a serial killer. Write the next great haiku. Install a despot who is sensitive to my need for semi-ripe papayas, Bombay Toast and the fertile plains of Virginia. Stare at a spiderweb up in the corner for thirty minutes wondering where the broom is. Get emotionally involved with a tomato while I slice it to death. All good.
So, you know what I've decided to do now that I'm done? I've decided...to choose. I choose all of them and I'll find out tomorrow how many I have time to actually do.