Friday, 23 November 2001 | Days off

It's Friday, almost 1:30, and I'm still in my pajamas. I haven't eaten anything at all, but eggs sound perfect and warm. Wait. A glance at the outdoor thermometer tells me it's 70 degrees outside; I wonder if it's broken? Maybe cereal is more appropriate today, sitting on the back steps with an intruding cat face nearby. Then I will clean the house and make a mixed tape and break to see an old friend and do everything I can do on this stolen watch. Stolen, because it's neither weekday nor weekend, and because my obligations and plans are liquid and have thinly spilled all over this giant four-day weekend, filling only corners and crevices. The rest of the time is mine, and unaccounted for.