Friday Nights

Essay by bob132132High School, 11th gradeA, March 2009

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Every Thursday, as I go about my usual Thursday routine, at some random point I come to the startling realization that Friday is quickly approaching and with it, comes the opportunity to let loose and relieve the stresses of the grueling work week. When this realization comes crashing through my cerebellum, I often experience a moment of sheer panic and terror. I imagine you're probably asking yourself, "Why on earth would I panic at the thought of an approaching Friday??" (I am saying this under the unlikely assumption that someone is actually reading what I'm writing now.) Well, the answer, of course, is that due to my procrastinating nature, I almost always fail to plan any type of weekend activity, thus leaving me home alone on a Friday night, anxiously rifling through the contents of my medicine cabinet, searching for some type of syrup, pill, or elixir that will give me the self-confidence needed to pull out my old little black book and dial every single ex-girlfriend I've ever had, furiously slamming down the phone as soon as I hear a voice on the other end of the line.

To my extreme dismay, horror, and blinding jealousy, ninety percent of the telephone numbers I dial are answered by male voices, who I assume to be the new love interests of Becky... and Rhonda... and Susan... and Katie...and the other Rhonda...and Eliza... and for God's sake, even Mildred, the morbidly obese hump-backed-whale-of-a-woman who suffered a previous crippling addiction to diet pills (diet pills that didn't do a damn thing for her hippo-shaped figure whatsoever) while we were seeing each other. I usually react to these male voices by screaming numerous profanities, calling the men's intestinal fortitude into question, and finally violently slamming down the phone in a rage and heaving it...