What is the Point of Friday?
We have deluded ourselves into thinking Friday is any better than any other day that comes before it from Monday onward, only because we have the delusion that the weekend is somehow less of a prison than those days when we're stuck in our jobs. But the fact remains that Friday is but a vessel of false hope leading us into the darkness of the succeeding Monday after we get a brief tease of light on Saturday and Sunday, just enough to keep us going. In short, Friday is the Great Deceiver of the week, while Saturday and Sunday are but brief moments of vacuous intoxication that misguide us into thinking we're somehow free at all when in reality we are all the army of Helpless Prisoners in this cyclical sequence of banality we call "life."
What Makes Friday Pointless?
First, let's consider the name of the day.
Friday is derived from the totally real Latin word "Frydani," which means "fry Dannies." Why a day exists with the purpose of inciting the frying of all men named Danny—and is considered a good welcoming gate to the weekend—is beyond me, but perhaps you have an answer. I doubt it, though, because anything you likely have to say is equally meaningless.
One could also argue that the day's namesake is also derived from the Norse god Frigga, the wife of Odin (or Woden or Wednesday), and the stepmother of Woden's son Thor, or Thursday, whose real mother is the Greek god Gaea, who doesn't even get her own day of the week.
If this doesn't already sound pointless enough considering the days of the week don't even have personalities or an ounce of self-awareness, consider the fact that the days of the week are a convoluted adulterous mix of the Norse and Roman gods, the latter of whom had eight days of the week, while the Norsemen decided to shave a day off simply because they could, and didn't stop to think whether or not they should. So, today we're stuck with seven days of pointlessness.
Next, let's look at where Friday falls in the Week Snake, which looks like a cheap updated version of the ancient serpentine ouroboros, reflecting the overall cheapness of modernity itself:
Friday is the most blase day of the week, and for good reason. Look at that flat face beside its name; it's clearly not looking forward to the weekend, because we know the weekend is only there to lead us into the ass of the snake to begin the reverse-digestion of its own fecal matter. Friday is but the esophagus leading from the stomach of Thursday, which is tragically conjoined with the intestines of Wednesday and Tuesday before we find ourselves deep in the filthy rectum of Monday.
Friday is derived from the totally real Latin word "Frydani," which means "fry Dannies." Why a day exists with the purpose of inciting the frying of all men named Danny—and is considered a good welcoming gate to the weekend—is beyond me, but perhaps you have an answer. I doubt it, though, because anything you likely have to say is equally meaningless.
One could also argue that the day's namesake is also derived from the Norse god Frigga, the wife of Odin (or Woden or Wednesday), and the stepmother of Woden's son Thor, or Thursday, whose real mother is the Greek god Gaea, who doesn't even get her own day of the week.
If this doesn't already sound pointless enough considering the days of the week don't even have personalities or an ounce of self-awareness, consider the fact that the days of the week are a convoluted adulterous mix of the Norse and Roman gods, the latter of whom had eight days of the week, while the Norsemen decided to shave a day off simply because they could, and didn't stop to think whether or not they should. So, today we're stuck with seven days of pointlessness.
Next, let's look at where Friday falls in the Week Snake, which looks like a cheap updated version of the ancient serpentine ouroboros, reflecting the overall cheapness of modernity itself:
Friday is the most blase day of the week, and for good reason. Look at that flat face beside its name; it's clearly not looking forward to the weekend, because we know the weekend is only there to lead us into the ass of the snake to begin the reverse-digestion of its own fecal matter. Friday is but the esophagus leading from the stomach of Thursday, which is tragically conjoined with the intestines of Wednesday and Tuesday before we find ourselves deep in the filthy rectum of Monday.
Why Else is Friday Pointless?
Seriously? That didn't drive home the inherent pointlessness of Friday enough for you?
Fine, then. Let me take you through the average person's Friday to help more effectively explain to you what exactly makes this day as fruitless as any other.
You wake up on Friday morning after a wet sleep beneath your waist-high layer of water emanating from the broken kitchen sink with the irreversible shamanic curse. You remove your scuba mask and tank, which are extremely difficult to get off thanks to your sedan-sized head that inexplicably expanded to its current state on Thursday. Thankfully, you have a doctor's appointment scheduled for Saturday to get that condition checked out, but who knows how that will go.
You eat your toenail and water breakfast cereal because you can't afford anything better until your pathetic paycheck of $100 next Monday. You then get dressed in your soaking suit and begin your journey to work.
Unfortunately, the train you usually take to work is still obstructed because of the pentagram that a group of Satanists constructed using a section of the track the day before, so once again you have to resort to using the ever-expensive Uber, causing you to overdraft on your debit card. If this isn't painful enough, your head hardly fits in the backseat because it's almost the size of the car itself, and your Uber driver happens to be an escapee from the nearby mental institution who thinks he's supposed to drive you to Tibet, but you don't realize this until you see a sign for the next state bordering the west side of yours and ask him about it. No wonder it's taken more than three hours to get downtown.
So, you cancel this Uber and get out and get into another, this time with a somewhat sane driver who happens to be a hamster using pipes attached to her legs to push on the gas and brake pedals.
Three hours later, you arrive at the office with two hours left in the workday. Your boss, who's still taken the literal form of his desk, sits in the way of the front door to the office while he yells at you for once again forgetting to sleep with his wife the night before, even though you make it clear that this arrangement was never agreed upon in the first place.
Your desk boss then sighs with exasperation and wobbles with his little desk legs into the meeting room, to which you follow him. Nobody else is in there, of course, because all of your co-workers are either dead or fired by this point. Instead, a single chart appears on a Powerpoint presentation projected by a banana sitting in the center of the conference table.
The chart's x-axis has a set of Roman numerals counting from one to ten, and is labeled "sales." The y-axis, on the other hand, consists of 12 seemingly random emoticons including a monkey grinning while holding a banana and a "rage" emoticon, and is labeled "marketing efforts." A single jagged line made of pound signs gradually leads downward from the top of the y-axis to the end of the x-axis, even though this is an American company working with US currency like any other.
Your boss goes on to explain that over the past few weeks the number of "valuable ancient sales" has increased as the company's "emotional marketing efforts" have decreased, signifying that the less effort put in by you, the better the company performs. So, he has you sit on the floor at your nonexistent desk and merely stare out the far office window for the next two hours and do nothing but ponder what else could possibly make your life emptier at this point.
Meanwhile, your boss reads the Herman Melville story Bartleby the Scrivener to you, which only fills you with a mix of mounting misery and confusion.
Once your workday ends, you return to your apartment and open the door to empty more floodwater into the hallway as the children at the end of the hall laugh and splash in the now shin-high cesspool. Their mother also flashes you yet another flirtatious smile, despite the fact that your once-marginally handsome head is now large enough to contain her entire family and drive them to Tibet.
Inside your apartment, you discover that both your bathroom sink and shower are now flooding in addition to the kitchen sink. A single printed note taped to the vanity mirror reads:
You eat your toenail and water breakfast cereal because you can't afford anything better until your pathetic paycheck of $100 next Monday. You then get dressed in your soaking suit and begin your journey to work.
Unfortunately, the train you usually take to work is still obstructed because of the pentagram that a group of Satanists constructed using a section of the track the day before, so once again you have to resort to using the ever-expensive Uber, causing you to overdraft on your debit card. If this isn't painful enough, your head hardly fits in the backseat because it's almost the size of the car itself, and your Uber driver happens to be an escapee from the nearby mental institution who thinks he's supposed to drive you to Tibet, but you don't realize this until you see a sign for the next state bordering the west side of yours and ask him about it. No wonder it's taken more than three hours to get downtown.
So, you cancel this Uber and get out and get into another, this time with a somewhat sane driver who happens to be a hamster using pipes attached to her legs to push on the gas and brake pedals.
Three hours later, you arrive at the office with two hours left in the workday. Your boss, who's still taken the literal form of his desk, sits in the way of the front door to the office while he yells at you for once again forgetting to sleep with his wife the night before, even though you make it clear that this arrangement was never agreed upon in the first place.
Your desk boss then sighs with exasperation and wobbles with his little desk legs into the meeting room, to which you follow him. Nobody else is in there, of course, because all of your co-workers are either dead or fired by this point. Instead, a single chart appears on a Powerpoint presentation projected by a banana sitting in the center of the conference table.
The chart's x-axis has a set of Roman numerals counting from one to ten, and is labeled "sales." The y-axis, on the other hand, consists of 12 seemingly random emoticons including a monkey grinning while holding a banana and a "rage" emoticon, and is labeled "marketing efforts." A single jagged line made of pound signs gradually leads downward from the top of the y-axis to the end of the x-axis, even though this is an American company working with US currency like any other.
Your boss goes on to explain that over the past few weeks the number of "valuable ancient sales" has increased as the company's "emotional marketing efforts" have decreased, signifying that the less effort put in by you, the better the company performs. So, he has you sit on the floor at your nonexistent desk and merely stare out the far office window for the next two hours and do nothing but ponder what else could possibly make your life emptier at this point.
Meanwhile, your boss reads the Herman Melville story Bartleby the Scrivener to you, which only fills you with a mix of mounting misery and confusion.
Once your workday ends, you return to your apartment and open the door to empty more floodwater into the hallway as the children at the end of the hall laugh and splash in the now shin-high cesspool. Their mother also flashes you yet another flirtatious smile, despite the fact that your once-marginally handsome head is now large enough to contain her entire family and drive them to Tibet.
Inside your apartment, you discover that both your bathroom sink and shower are now flooding in addition to the kitchen sink. A single printed note taped to the vanity mirror reads:
Sorry, I've cursed both your sink and shower along with your kitchen sink.
Please don't be mad.
As the scorpion would say to the frog, "It's my nature."
Sincerely,
The Ironically Evil Shaman Who Lives Upstairs in Apt. 3B
(i.e. Henry)
P.S.: You might want to lock your door, but in all honesty that wouldn't protect you, either.
No longer full of enough energy to be pissed, you remove your clothes and skinny dip in your apartment, floating on your back as you stare at the ceiling that offers no comforting face or hopeful words of wisdom.
Following another bowl of toenail crunch, you slip on your scuba gear and settle beneath your bedroom pool for another empty night of sleep. And thus your Friday comes to a futile end as the night transitions into the soon-to-be-painful morning waiting to greet you on Saturday.
Does that sound about right? You tell me. Or don't, because I won't listen. You should know by now that there isn't a point to be found in Friday, any more than any other day of the week. So my advice to you is to just give up.
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