I like it when a humpday just doesn’t give a fuck, and so it doesn’t even try.
It’s just, like, a piece of inconsequential debris on the road. It shouldn’t be there, but it’s scarcely an obstruction.
But in my mind I’m steeling myself for a Mt. Everest of fuckin’ humpdays . . . but then the day comes and I just sail through it-it doesn’t even feel like a humpday and I’m like, “What was that? I got worked up over a piddly little frittering fart of a Wednesday. Nothin’ to it!”
But the tension and readiness is still with me. I’m kicking ass and knocking down buildings all the way through to Sunday, y’know?
It’s that weird way that a humpday can bob and weave and duck and cover and cause you to go charging right over it-and then you’re barrelling down hill fucking up all the shit!
You might not even stop ‘til you come back around to the next humpday . . . and this time it has erected a brick goddamn wall . . .
Then you can stop for a minute.
