DRAG ME AWAY FROM SUNDAY

When a stack of papers is dropped on your desk with a big thump, you can't simply move. Then you see the word deadline in big bold letters. Half of you is numb, half of you is contemplating murder.

When a big crush approaches you from across the dance floor, looks at you in the eye, says hello, you simply drop your cigarette and your jaw. Not necessarily in that order.

When someone in drag tells you in baritone that you are such a cutie, you squirm. You squirm in a bad way.

When somebody you've so waited to text you finally texts you, your eyes crosses staring in disbelief at the appearing name. The cellphone grits along the edges. So do your molars. You're squeezing the phone. You slur invectives.

When you begin to suspect your partner is having an affair, you just want to stuff his nose while he sleeps. But then, considering all other partners, doing so would be a preamble to a bizarre career as a serial killer.

When somebody tells you I LOVE YOU after a series of failed loves, your head blacks out. You want to reach for something to use in bludgeoning a cretin. But that, again, would be the beginning of a grotesque career of the same genus as the above.

24 hours before Monday, you go through the same excruciating predicaments. You picture traffic jam. A multitude of pedestrians. An endlessly discontented boss. Mustering bravery to walk a thickening smog on a summer day, wade on dark syrupy flood waters on a rainy day. Hours of agony to impress a client...

You sit. You grab coffee. You light a cigarette. You might even plan to masturbate. But your mind is beginning to have a mind of its own. Then your thoughts are thrown backwards. You reluctantly recall the past series of unfortunate events that brings the same toment as the above.

You remember a friend who tells you to MOVE ON but couldn't do the same when when it's his turn. You want to gag him.

You remember an admirer who could not have you because he met you in a sex club. You want to bathe him in Lysol.

You remember another admirer whom you could not have as he only wants your body. You want to bathe in Lysol.

You remember the indifference of a friend towards your lovelorn dilemma. You wish him the same.

You thought of a dubious friend who, after disagreeing with another dubious friend for running off with your lover, goes out with them on a drinking spree. You just want to feed her with the pages from a book entitled DELICADEZA.

You stare your clients in the eye. Clients who failed to pay you. You touch shoulders with people who ran off with your money. Bad investments and all. Lost in translation, you just want to run out of the street screaming, "Conflagration! Conflagration!"

You remember never questioning the motives of a fake friend for making peace with you after three years of not talking to you. It took a snake's bite for you to figure it out. You want to pull his spine out of his mouth. But he probably doesn't have one and you'd rather not take a hold of anything that's coming out of his inside.

You see your ex and his new love wearing the same outfit on the way to a bar. And now they are wearing a ring. You want to wring their necks. But you just love them both. Ooh... you just love them both.

You shoot out maledictions upon brushing with the memory of one who sold his promises to shamelessness. In spite of the million ways you thresh out your vindication, the number of which is directly proportional to the million ways you wanted to die during the early days of your break-up, you rather save yourself from choking in your own vomit. Thinking of him makes you throw up. More Lysol!

Instead of biting your own head off for being such a sucker for anything that's adverse to being skin deep, you'd rather take a big sigh and wish it's already Monday.