Are you ever going to end? You started out way too soon, like a fourteen year old boy locked in the bathroom, pants around his ankles. You started like he did, two years later, on the grass, in a park, hand cupped over his first girlfriend’s boob.
But unlike that boy, Day, you never really climaxed. You went (go) on and on with no middle and, apparently, no end. What are you going to hand me next, Day? Another wad of shit? Another stupid person at work, or behind the wheel of a Volvo, ready to piss me off?
Day, let me tell you something: I can’t take it much longer. You’ve got three hours–three hours and no more–before I turn off the lights, pull the covers over my head and say goodbye to you.
And you know what? I can’t wait. I’m so ready to break it off with you.
You’ve caused me nother but misery and stress, more than I should ever be handed in a twenty four hour persiod.
You know what else? That’s all you are. Nothing but time. You’re nothing more than a bunch of minutes–minutes and seconds.
I can get over you. I can toss away each part of you, each quick second, each everlasting hour. All I have to do is breathe. I breathe and eventually I get another one of you. Different. Better.
Sure, sure it’ll be the same in some respects. It’ll have seconds and hours. But it’ll be different.
Her name is Wednesday. She’s so much better than you–closer to Friday which, as you know (if you pay attention to anything at all) is right next to Saturday, right before those two days when I don’t have to do anything, when I don’t have to put up with anything like what you gave me today.
That’s right, Day. I’m leaving you. I’m leaving you for Wednesday. She’s so much better than you.