Sunday.

Sundays are for sleeping. For nursing hangovers. For lighting up a joint before the first cigarette of the day that helps you take a dump. For not taking a dump at all or brushing your teeth or worrying about the greenish stubble threatening to make you look like a bum. Sundays are for being a bum. For staying in your chaadis all day and not even bothering to answer the door when someone you’re not expecting comes calling. Sunday is for the two friends you wouldn’t mind scratching your balls in front of while they dig with their pinkies for the itchy hair growing up their left nostril. All the while saying nothing because nothing random needs to be said. You can sit in silence for an entire day and still feel like you had a good time. A lazy time. A safe time where in all choices are safe and the only thing you actually have to think about is whether KFC has a better special going than the Chinese place. For discussions on metaphysical realities of life between an IT guy and an office drone which if overheard or published or even remembered could to some degree of probability answer all of life’s burning questions.

Sunday’s are for recuperating. In a 5 day week world, from the party last night, and in a 6 day week one, from a week wasted in pursuit of money. Sunday’s are for phone calls to distant friends, for watching random reruns of shows you never thought you’d enjoy. For taking a long candle lit bath, preferably with a humanoid belonging to the gender other than your own who holds some measure of a promise to be a steady addition to your Sundays and Mondays and the rest of the days in a capacity much like that of a spouse. But if one such animal is unavailable, alone isn’t too bad an option either. Sunday’s are for cutting your nails and shaving your armpits in the 30 minute window of sobriety between dinner and your last hit of the night to be ready for another week of grueling pretense of competence and sociability. Sunday’s are for being alone but totally exposed. For leaving all your masks, and your tricks in the closet and being exactly and only what you want to be with the haves and the supposeds surrendered for one 24 hour period. Sundays are for the people you would still wanna be around after all compulsions to bear with other people have been removed.

Your Sunday friends are your best friends and every body else is peripheral noise trying to lead you astray.

I think it would be safe to say that I like Sundays, I look forward to them. They’re the light at the end of every week long dark tunnel. I like em because I can undertake any mixture of the above in any order I choose and feel like it’s okay to be a slob, a pervert, a bum, a klutz, a nihilist or an existentialist or a moron or a retard and not give a rat’s ass about what anybody else has to say because all the scrutinizing set of eyes are barred outside my door for one day. I liked Sundays even when I was jobless and had nothing much to do all week. Because even then, only on Sundays would I allow myself to let go completely of all worldly obligations and materialistic pursuits, hell I even managed not to remember in Sundays. Sundays had no pasts, no histories. Sundays were just the bonus day per week that belonged to no set of principles or laws or needs or wants but to you. Only to you. There are no surprises on Sundays, or at least there shouldn’t be.

And for the longest time, there weren’t.

Through the break-up and through the financial crises and even through the grave shift days, I kept my Sundays unblemished and unmarked by the burden of associations.

Notice the past tense there. Notice it and know that I do this with not so much much a heavy hear as a disappointed one. This was always in the works, I knew, I just hoped my sub conscious wouldn’t betray me on this one. I had hoped all my faculties were aligned at least for this one cause of maintaining the sanctity of Sundays. But, it wasn’t so. As it wasn’t meant to be. As most things we think we want aren’t really what we ought to have, or deserve, I suppose, Sundays too had to follow suit.

You woke me up today. Four hours of sleep is all I could get before my first dream in about three years. The last one I had was while delirious with fever in an ice cold room with glass windows on a November night in London. That dream gave birth to this blog and I had hoped I would never dream again. That dream was half a hallucination and I had so fervently believed that it was just my delirium. I didn’t realize then that that condition had nothing to do with the fever or the cold or the proximity of the day to the very first anniversary of the very first I love you after the very last I’m sorry; that I would be perpetually plagued by random bouts of dementia along with all my other illnesses and addictions.

Yes I tend to exaggerate, over dramatize everything. But waking up to you, you, after all this time, on a Sunday morning… disgusting.

I was so confused that I almost shaved. This couldn’t be a Sunday I thought and I ran around like a chicken that’s been shot in the ass. Hell, I almost went to work.

Ya know, I think it’s time to admit it, you’re the O and the C in my OCD. That’s fine, I can live with that, I think that’s healthier than the obsessive cleaning of the toilet bowl and less freakish than the stacking of all DVDs to piles of the exact same height, codes not only alphabetically but by color. It’s like a disease, which I always figured being in ‘heart’ would fester into. I wanted this. But seriously, if you fuck up, one more Sunday (talking to my subconscious now), I will bust a cap in yo ass bitch.

Which would effectively put an end to this blog too. I know for sure of at least three people who’d be tickled in all the right ways by that.

Okay now I’m just rambling.

Good bye.