Friday Arithmetic

It’s Friday and my brain stops working in the normal way. There’s a specific logic to Friday nights, though it’s not logic that survives until Saturday morning—it’s the logic of escalation, where each stupid idea leads to the next one and somehow it all makes sense.

I’m thinking about Kaya Scodelario for reasons that don’t need explaining. I’m going through the Katy Perry nip slip situation in my head, honestly unimpressed—hers was underwhelming, something that should have landed harder. Rick Astley’s got a new song and I can’t stop turning it over, the way there’s something almost elegant about getting rickrolled again, like the trolls finally got bored and were offering you a mercy callback.

There’s MySpace sitting in the back of my head like some archaeological site I could visit. Going back would feel like grave-robbing or fucking a corpse—poking around in the bones of what I used to spend hours on. That one I’ll probably skip.

But the other things? A New York cheesecake from Starbucks, lit on fire, left on the neighbor’s porch. A Pikachu on a leash in the nicest club in the city. These are the moves that either become legendary or get you thrown out—and either way, you’ve got something by midnight.

I know I should read something. Murakami works, any Murakami. It’ll be worth it on a level I don’t understand until I’m halfway through. Or I could actually watch that documentary about anal sex, learn something real instead of just assuming I know how technique works. Friday’s not the time for assumptions.

The specific things don’t matter. What matters is that on Friday, all the stupid ones line up and feel connected, like there’s an actual curriculum. You know better by Monday. Right now, at the start of Friday night, it’s the only logic that works.