As of tonight, around nine o'clock, Manhattan Offender is entering a jaded period, every weekend the same things. All of my weekend plans (or should I say what has been planned for me) are unoriginal and uninspired. I can understand the occasional side trip to a dive, the rare respite to places a little down-market from where you consider yourself in the social stratosphere, but to repeatedly dip me into the unholy baptism of the common is to drown me with disdain. Sure, it's easy to be a beautiful flower in a field of cow dung, but I want to be a beautiful flower in a field of beautiful flowers by damn!
That being said, Offender's worst weekend ever (just in case someone wants to come down the slippery slide of suckitude with me, or even better, rescue me, I need to meet new people, or maybe just take five seconds and call some people, which of course requires time, but my time is tied up with this long stream of horrid events):
- Friday night - Pieces, on Christopher Street of all places
- Saturday - PS1, again, again, again
- Sunday - Jones Beach. If dragged to the straight section, my actions are not to be held against me.
Lemonades will be made of these lemons. The day will be rued when I have no impressive itinerary item for my weekend. Court will be held; Judge Offender will be in session. If all else fails, I can just go to the Pines leaving this suddenly sucky summer of spiritless similitude in my wake.
