Everybody's Workin' for the Weekend

It’s Friday, and I am entirely alone in this building that houses my office.

Three stories, completely unoccupied except for me. If I died here, how long would it take someone to find my body? To even notice I was gone?

Hmm . . . I’d rather not think about that.

The other organization that occupies my building doesn’t seem to work very much, really. They aren’t here on snow days, or bank holidays, or, say, Fridays. And they are a non-profit that is supposed to assist homeless people. That is a bit more important than what I do, but their work seems to consist mostly of keeping homeless people OUT of their offices. When I locked myself out of my office (which has happened more than once), trying to get them to open their door and help me was like trying to get (insert witty metaphor for something really difficult HERE). When the woman downstairs finally did open the door, she was all jittery and unsure what to do, as if I were going to suddenly bash her with a crowbar or start raving like a lunatic.

But I had taken my medication that day.

So I will sit and pretend that I have something to do for the next four hours and forty minutes. And I will venture out, blinking in the harsh light of day, to forage for food. And then the weekend will begin, and I will be happy again