suicidal sunday night

i like saturday mornings best... no near memory or imminent threat of work, time all to myself, coffee made by me, not the girls at the human bean. their coffee is better, but its cold out and i like to drink the first cup in my pyjamas. by sunday, the spell is worn, the mystery of the weekend demystified, me disenchanted, unfulfilled. it is never enough. what i didn't do: rake the rest of the wet leaves blown up against the side of the house by the wind wind wind that has swept the driveway clean year after year but will not bag the goddamn leaves; i didn't sweep the dog crap off the porch or clean the mold off the floor where the plant was. what i accomplished: got food, a cubicle organizer for my many sweaters. many black turtleneck sweaters. what is it about organizers? they, like weekends and new lipstick, promise so much and deliver so little. at least this one wasn't plastic. they don't fix a life, they don't provide meaning. the take up more space, which was the issue in the first place. if not plastic, they are molded from pressed wood. paper, really, that warps and mutates at the first hint of moisture. moisture, which, if you've been reading along, i do not manage any better than any other aspect of my life. so they (organizers) are another example of planned obsolesence, like my truck, at 40,000 miles, is falling apart. the warantee off at 36,000. ah well. thus, the job, the subsequent dissatisfaction, and weekends....