Sunday nights are a working man’s purgatory.
It’s a queer time, those Sunday nights. The weekend fun is over and the new week has not yet begun. There just aren’t many good ways of burning those final fleeting hours of a Sunday night short of vegging out in front of the TV. And even that’s a bust since there isn’t much worth watching anyway. I could read that book I’ve been meaning to read for the past five years I suppose. But I can’t only because I set it down somewhere and have long forgotten where that was. I was so looking forward to it too. Somewhere in this house there is a secret library of all the books I have lost over the years which I’ve been meaning to read. I bet it’s quite an eclectic collection too. Someone is going to be in for a treat whenever they discover that lost bonanza. Probably after I’m dead and gone with my luck. Ah well, I can take comfort in the fact that I will have left something of value behind for others to enjoy assuming anyone still bothers reading books then. They’d better or I would’ve lost all those books for nothing.
I’ve never quite known what to do with myself on a Sunday night. When I was a kid I often spent my Sunday nights working on homework that had to be ready to be turned in first thing on Monday morning. But I’m long past that thank God. Now nobody makes me do homework and it seems like it’s been a lifetime since I finished my very last homework assignment for a cranky teacher. Now as a professional art bum I don’t have to worry about homework anymore. I just set around on my duff and eat all sorts of things that would make my cardiologist die of fright while I veg out in front of the TV and ponder the deep mysteries of life. Mysteries like what exactly makes great art great anyway? And why don’t more people spend their time and energy being creative artisans?! And why isn’t there anything good on TV, dadgum it??????
Lord, I knew I should have gone to Hollywood and become a TV writer.
