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We got half day Fridays back in july or so cuz our employer was guilty they took away 10% of our pay and laid off people and made everyone else pick up the slack. It was supposed to only be for the summer, but when summer was over they said ‘until the end of the year’ which was fine by me and everyone else.

My half day Fridays are mine and mine alone. I’ve never told anyone I have half day Fridays. I just pretend I work all day. It would be great if I had a hot boyfriend or had enough guts to go get myself one. Too bad I am too chicken and spend the time eating, drinking and writing.

At first, because it was summer, I’d go down to the beach. There was a cool little old-timey restaurant right on the beach. I’d sit in one of two spots and order Sam Adams and fish tacos. I’d watch girls in bikinis rollerblade or bicycle ride or walk or volleyball by and I’d write shit and I”d read shit and I’d get buzzed almost drunk and eat those fucking awesome fish tacos for like 3 hours. The bill, with tip and parking, would always be right around $33.00 and I’d pack up my puter and walk down the boardwalk and find a bench and sit on it for the remaining 45 minutes. I’d sit and wish I could call one of you and happy drunk talk at you. The gulls would see-saw around and people would walk by in groups. There’d be friends drinking on the outside patios and I’d wonder who all these people were who could sit around drinking at 3:00 on a Friday afternoon at the beach. Then I’d remember I was one of them and I’d wonder what secrets all of them were keeping.

When I was sober enough or even if I wasn’t, I’d drive home with my stereo playing loud, windows down, taking in the hot wind, wishing my name was different and that I didn’t need to be anywhere.

After the beach got too crowded and parking easily stopped happening, I found a divey irish bar close to my office. It has an amazing outside patio where everyone in surrounding companies would come to eat lunch. I’d order black n tans and an amazing turkey Ortega melt sandwich. There was one waitress who was older, but had an amazing fake rack and she’d always wear tank tops. I’d watch all the guys faces as she waited on them. When she’d wait on me, I would always be glad I kept my sunglasses on and when I was finally drunk I always felt a shot away from asking her to make out with me in the ladies room.

I would sit, drink, eat, read and write. Man that sandwich was good.

I went there for a while, but now it’s cold and I can’t go there. Today I went to a coffee shop that was pretty awesome. It wasn’t crowded. It had lots of old people and the décor was like Grandmas gone wild. They had Christmas music playing that created a significant drone in the back of my brain that was conducive to the creative stream that I ended up not utilizing. I had Swedish pancakes. They came to me folded very small and fit on a quarter of the plate. My first reaction was to ask, Is this all? But I didn’t. I ate those little folded triangles with lingonberry jam and then I ordered a cup of clam chowder. It was salty. I ate it so slow it was cold by the time I finished it. I read a book nate tyree is working on so I could give him my thoughts. It pretty much ruled. It has so much graphic sex in it I wanted to rub one out right there in the booth. Go nate.

Now I am at a starbucks. Always with the starbucks.

Just wanted to update you all. Hi Otto. Don’t get herpes.