Thursday

Thursday.
It's like hell in the office.
It's that day after the middle day of work in the week,
where you still got a mountain-load to finish,
and you yearn for Friday to come,
but you are scared;
you're scared you're unable to finish excavating by then,
and reap the rewards that you toiled so hard for.

Yet you wear a hopeful smile when no one is looking,
for you know the day is inching,
albeit slowly creeping,
towards the end of the week.
But you know it's not there yet,
not just yet;
that glorious Friday which marks the end of bondage and beginning of freedom.

Everybody's stressed out.
So they went for a drink at Starbucks.
Except me.
I sat in front of the computer.
Until a good soul offered to drive me out for lunch.
I had sashimi instead.
They said it would upset my stomach further,
but I wouldn't listen;
I needed to feel the taste of raw flesh in my mouth,
that helpless, slimy cold as it glides on my tongue down my throat
to envelope that frightened little feeling inside my stomach
to stifle it while it's still inside the cocoon
before it develops into a butterfly.

I kidnapped a moose today.
Sat it by my chicken on the wall.
Just to revenge against the stupid American policy
of Daylight Savings
when everyone everywhere else has to bend their time
to accomodate dear old Uncle Tom in his cabin.

I need a weekend to destress;
somewhere far far away,
where my prince awaits with his green bird,
and I lie on that perfect island,
undressed for a soothing spa;
and the book that I read topples onto a vast pile that lies beneath my head,
and the white clouds in the sky just simply blinds my eyes,
while you dip a strawberry in chocolate sauce for me,
and place your gaze in mine.

Focus on me,
I don't like you looking at her...
Who is that masseur?
I just silently tell myself,
Form is temporary,
but Class is forever.
My Thursday...