Okay, I’m over that

Ignore that momentary loss of composure. A bad weekend, psychologically, spilled over. The thing is, I wait and wait for the weekends to come, and then there’s that whole glorious rollercoaster — Friday night, when anything’s possible (except that I never leave the house); Saturday, the wide open day when you can just do anything without repercussions or recrimination (except for back-to-back swimming and ballet lessons); and then Sunday, The Day That Cried, when you’re still free but soon you won’t be. Rinse, work like a dog for five days, repeat. I used to see the weekend cycle as a very common, pedestrian, undesirable thing; if I were truly cool, I wouldn’t have to rely on the weekend for my fun. Probably a healthy way to look at it back when I had to work weekends. Now, a weekend is to me what it is to most of the rest of America. I am what I am. This is my Non-Urban Life.
And so, when something emotionally gut-wrenching happens on Friday night, and it’s dragged on through the entire weekend, one arrives at Monday without any of the rest and refreshment one should have. And then one posts a dumb, depressing, mysterious blog.
And then one upbraids oneself for switching between the imperfect references in the second person and the use of the term “one”. And then one quits writing for the day.