Days in, days out

Do weekends matter when you don't have a job? I asked myself this question last night. A group of us had just arrived, cutting a path through the stifling heat, at a local nightclub. As per usual, in the early night, there was an MC getting the crowd warmed up with silly games for those celebrating birthdays and staggettes.

"Thank God it's Saturday night!" The MC crowed, to the crowd who cheered at this utterance.

In the semi-darkness of the club, the music began to pump, making the air reverberate with a sort of frantic energy. Sweat began to dew upon my skin, and the bright lights flashed temporarily blinding me when they swung towards my eyes.

Weekend, weekday, it's all the same to me. Saturday feels no different than Thursday, Tuesday or Monday. The rest of the crowd, the employed elite, no doubt, were letting loose of their weekday shackles into the darkness of the club. I, however, felt like an intruder. The perennial laze-about, trying to blend in.