Friday, December 23, 2016

Another year is about to end, and it ends like how it started:

Another year is about to end, and it ends like how it started:

Albert is crawling on the inside, there is a loneliness he cannot shake. 

Of course he is single. 2016 is marked with discarded names and memories like scratched-out stickers on a bathroom stall. The bathroom is unkempt, comically. The dingy bathroom stall might as well signify his life: room for one. Another could enter, but not stay long and only willingly at the start.

I make it seem like I am being left behind, being used. Let me clarify: I am done being used. I have been since turning 22. The dingy bathroom stall of my personality forces people out and what I am sad about is not them leaving, but them not trying to come back. But of course I am going to refuse, if ever they do.

And if they don’t come back, I am made to feel resented –well, seems like it. As if, I had been a huge waste of time, a pile of shit that was too close. But I did my best; I did give the boyfriend experience, without being a ‘boyfriend’ and without more than a few words. I remember being excited to show someone how beautiful Nagsasa Island was through an elaborate, uncontrollably giddy narration, complete with pictures. I remember having cooked and gathered dirty dishes to wash later in the sink. I remember cinema verite sitcoms. I remember being excited to drop by your office, to just see you –to frame you in my mind. I still feel connected to the building, even now that it has burned down and boarded. I remember the inside jokes and your slaps on my knee upon my barbaric jokes gone overboard. Because I am unkempt, and you are well made and even decorated.

I remember when it started being stressful, for reasons unknown. I remember thinking about being sad in the supermarket aisle. I was picking at a scab –maybe underneath would be something else. Why wouldn’t I want to find an answer? But the more I picked and scratched, the more hopeless it became. I may have saved you from myself by turning you away. I remember you telling me you were starting to get sad too, and it made me sad. More thinking and scratching, and I never avoided the questions and I might have burned out myself to a pause right in the middle of that supermarket aisle.

So maybe my problem is I turn people away. Let’s put it that way. Without you, and with this problem, where do I go now?

This year has not been great for the world –selfish but mine went sort of great because I got into grad school. I also had great sex. I suppose there’s satisfaction in that too. I have seen you on occasion in the hallways, your head bobbing through doors, and I guess you have seen mine, bobbing as I nervously navigate the hallway. But maybe you never want to speak, and I want you keep the door closed. I never want to see you again. Because you have to resent me and I want to save you from myself.


I imagine putting up on my wall a picture of you. I will touch your face and meet the glass: not even an inch thick but already too far away and too cold. 

Tuesday, June 9, 2015

I cannot lie to most people but somehow I have tongued my way through.

Simply, I have no idea how to write. I’ve spent probably zero hours learning about it, save for the English classes, but those are for grammar (innocence in or disregard for which, for some reason, is a source of embarrassment in some societies). Zero seminars, camps, weekend courses, what-have-yous. It’s amusing, however, that I always have ideas to write about, for example this admission that I know squat.

There are no buts, except for ‘BUT thankfully people know how to read’, and some people like what I write. I do not expect them to call me a writer –I cannot stand for them, and I can’t pretend to have a history kissing dead authors (aren’t writers bred, sort of?), so I do not dress myself the label. I am a freelance worker at best, with some work published (a little sweaty to write, and it reeks) in (on? for?) two magazines.

I compiled the slips of rags and put them behind my resume as my portfolio. The said portfolio proves that I have done work, and not writing ability, specifically (because there are people who read more carefully than others, perhaps). My resume, I decorated with a picture (A very handsome portrait of me, so it helps with the lie), a verse, and the choicest truths. Nowhere in those two pages of my  resume would one see a journalistic background (seminars, camps, weekend courses, whatever). I took up something medical in college, then flew for an airline, did a little more slavery at a magazine (hence the published credits, which are advertorials), and then moved on to marketing, where I was forced to leave after exactly six months (good riddance, in my mind).

Here now, talking, is a freelance worker (freelancer?).

But what makes a writer? I have asked myself this for months, and thinking about it brought me to: a degree in writing makes one a writer, kind of, because all job vacancies that call for a writer require a degree in anything related to writing (but this is only for the convenience of not having to teach syntax and grammar, but not the more ‘playful’ parts of putting pen to paper); a portfolio is definite proof, sort of, (again, it’s only proof of working history. I have a portfolio but as I said above, this means nothing to some people); or a published book. Maybe. You will need a story for that.

Let us leave that unanswered.

I asked a friend. Well, I asked friends, and only one responded (sidebar: I might have to uncouple from some people). The friend, who is a writer, said that if whatever crap one craps on paper is good enough to be published, then it will make him a writer. Let me think: my published works were assigned to me, a process which was not along the lines of a ‘OH MY, THIS HAS TO BE READ –NO, EXPERIENCED, BY THE WORLD’-type of life-changing event. In my head, what he told me was ‘you have to be discovered’, and by that premise, I am not a writer. I applied to be an intern, and then got assignments and then wrote. No one ejaculated halfway through any of the advertorials. The other magazine I got published in (for? on?) initially assigned the article to one person, and then that person was very busy at that time so he tapped me on the shoulder, ‘Hey, can you write a thousand and five hundred words in a week?’ Sure, why not, I said, without even asking him what the magazine is and what the article should be about. It was a hungry time for me, and it was probably impractical and risky to ask questions. Then I remembered that I was not dealing with an underground art dealer hocking Nazi artifacts, so I asked. ‘Playboy, about music’, he said. Sure, why not, I have an iPod.

A requirement and an accident. Both I did for free. Do I have to be paid for articles to call myself a writer?
  
These anecdotal pieces of evidence are not fit for songs, to be played as my coffin is lowered into a grave. In short, nothing is wonderful about having been assigned anything. Well, in my head, or am I being romantic about it? Do I want a wayward gust of wind produced by the flapping of wings of a black dragon as it ascends to accidentally blow my handwritten musings on half-burnt parchment paper, fly it across the world, and straight to into a window and neatly onto the table of an unknowing editor, who happens to be the best editor in the world? Bullet holes left and right, I know, but would you blame me? Only for being idealistic. Also, in the dragon scenario I would have been dead.

You all can agree that what I really want is validation, and I believe the same is true for each of you. Do I need a writing degree? More meaningful articles? Less questions or more? Do I have to validate myself?

I have to admit that I am missing form, and I write this way because I speak this way and I think this way. My brain is a stack of hay, and I wish for not one needle in that image (see how messy I write?). Do I need a mentor for this? Or is life enough of a mentor and I should shut my mouth and keep a diary and a list?

Eh. Volunteers are welcome. I guess.


Friday, June 27, 2014

I am the Youngest Single Father Wannabe. With a Teenage Daughter.

I am too tired to write for the day.



But I need to vent because I am starting to feel uncomfortable about life. I am becoming the guy with acid reflux due to stress.



My sister is here until the last week of August. I do not feel a strong sibling bond, but instead I feel a parental bond. The setupis like a single father with a teenage daughter, except I am her older brother and she is not a teen. We are one year apart, and we do not have the best connection, meaning we have not bonded over the years of playing with toys and worms and hamsters.



But far from mandatory is the concern I feel for her, and as much as I do not want to be always in the loop, because she goes out a lot, I need  to know where she is and I need to be here at home to cook and clean. She does the dishes and shares with the bills and it is fine, but we do not talk very much. Except one night when I drank a quarter of a bottle of Bacardi and became chatty. She sat down with me while I was watching House of Cards, which pretty much became blurrier with the alcohol, and we talked. I turned off the TV finally and became chattier, but still I seemed to keep to myself while being the kind of personable person I wanted; I wasn’t the most endearing sibling, and i am very far from a sweet big brother, but the openness of the conversation brought the edges sandwiching the gap closer. Family issues were brought up, and phones, because we are both geeks with gadgets and she defended her Android phone and I help up the Apple banner. The conversation went to partying and I told her that I have come to the level of being able to hold my alcohol and also told her my short courtship with substances (no hard drugs, just weed). It is about knowing what you want, and coming from me who had passed out many times, and in my younger college days, blacked-out (hearing what I did from friends who are better with alcohol than I am, aka I didn’t know what I was doing, aka plastered), I think I have some authority to preach. But in the end, after all the sharing about the crazy nights, I told her to not be afraid to try, and just be responsible enough to hold her own. I am not trying to be lax about it and to be honest, inside my head I was revolting at how my little sisteris somehow allowed to be drinking. She is of legal age, but still it made my little belly flop. But who am I to be strict, when I have fought to be independent. It felt like peeping into the future, if and when I decide to have a child, and the child grows up. Where is the balance, and how do I delegate to herself own well-being when addiction is so easy to fall into? Maybe it is just trust, and I am too young to trust a child, or this little sister of mine, but there is nothing else that makes sense other than to just tell her how much is enough.



This is one of the three I have, and I feel queasy just trying to think about the secrets I have to share with the other two, and what should I tell them, or if I should even. My older brother is living with his girlfriend, and my little brother is going off to a University. He is much smarter than me (when it comes to math). In the future, will all this even matter? If I become proactive in becoming involved in their lives, will it be better for me, or them? Somehow I am trying to dig myself out of obscurity as the second child. I have issues but so do they. Do my issues stand a chance against theirs, knowing mine are just mostly balls of angst?

Whatever. I should know when to stop stocking up on angst as well. It is addictive to lob hateful thoughts and it deeply satisfies, but then again, addiction is easy. I should learn when enough is enough.

Sunday, June 1, 2014

Should I start talking about my life?


I don’t know if I should. I mean, I want to, just not the major parts of it. of course, I have written about my resignation from work, but that has already passed, and honestly I don’t think it would hold any significance when it someone would read a book about my life. It would be a blotch: “….so I resigned from work. And this morning I am over it, thinking about something else entirely.”

But what would make sense to talk about? What would I like to read about someone’s life? His love life? I’d lift a finger –no, a hand, to pick it up and tear up numerous pages about emotions. I do not feel like I should care about emotions except maybe if the author is extremely angry or in doubt, because there’s a plot twist around the corner I’d love to read about. Career? Good luck with mine; I have no idea what I am doing right now. Is this considered a job even, typing about my thoughts in my underwear on my couch, with a bottle of water, an ashtray and a lighter resting quietly on a foldable sidetable? A job, I think, is something that involves stress and its effect. This insomnia I have been having is so different from the one caused by stress, because mine’s caused by HBO. Insomnia, the serious hospital-version, would be related to like, witnessing someone die, or something die, or really bad news about something irreversible, namely: diseases, a break-up, or termination from work, et cetera. Me quitting work is me getting back my relief. Money problems? I have no income starting next month but that doesn’t seem very stressful to think about and thus I sleep soundly from 4am-2pm, which is just normal because I have nothing in my life that is immediate or pressing or incredibly joyful from the day I submitted my resignation letter. Via email. And forgot about the whole thing. And I am ice-walling anything from the office now: emails, texts, memos, because I do not care anymore. I am tired of doing that, and I absolutely hate having to deal with some people at work who pretend to be likeable, but that kindness is the hook and when one gets hooked, he is screwed. So maybe here is the root of the stress.

I am going to brew myself a cup of coffee.

And drop three to five ice cubes in it.

---

Cold black coffee tastes a lot off-putting at first, but if it’s really strong, it settles and then gets better and finally tastes like the resentment I carry inside my body, and I am feeding it with black coffee. Better with a cigarette. Not with anything else, not even cream, and/or sugar, because then it would be awful. It feels like some kind of Harry Potter magic spell, like ennervate, and I finally know how it feels like being brought back from unconsciousness except I am fully conscious this whole time. This isn’t sludgy either, because I used a new filter, and I use a new one all the time, which adds up to maybe three a day if I am feeling very faux-productive aka anticipating work. Right now I am anticipating nothing, non-ticipating, because I have told you I do not have work. Anymore. Since yesterday. When I emailed the resignation letter.

Having been brought up with the proper amount of directions how to live my life, thanks to my parents, I have grown into this adult who is sufficiently respectful of all authority figures. Now that I have nothing going on except this thing I am doing in my underwear on my couch while smoking, and if this gets taken away from me, then I shall have nothing. And maybe I’ll cry or whatever. I cannot imagine not being this person I have become.

I repeat, I cannot imagine not being this person that I have become. I have grown comfortable with being the nerdy wallflower, who is really borderline misanthrope, and likes to think about things and pretends he is not very smart, sometimes, to drive people away. I have my means of deflecting people, and I have been successful. Interestingly, ideas get to me fast, and I think about how people think about my ideas and me and then I worry if they would discover me and then have judgments that have real value and then I’ll be very screwed. I value my privacy very much.

I value my privacy more than the privacy of my ideas.

Like this one: I want to be so attractive that I’d be the go-to person for people who want to cheat. I wouldn't have sex with all of them, but just that reputation would be nice to have. I would have a table on my own, with no one to talk to. Sadly I am not, and this is one failure of my gene pool. I could be that person who no one wants to hang out with, because he causes some sort of domestic disruption. But whatever, I am lonely already, so no use for that dream. I have reached my goal already.

Or this one: I do not like being alone, but I also cannot handle conversations. So I just want people in my surroundings, not to talk to, but just to accompany me without really consciously being there for me. They shouldn't even be concerned, and they cannot look at me. When will I be this rich? I have the mentality for it already; all I am waiting for is the money.

--

I guess I am not very good at focusing on things when I am not depressed or up at night or sober. i am now depressed, up at 2am, alone with myself, and drinking alcohol which I poured for myself. Now I can see the wonderful parts I didn’t see the first time I watched this series. This answers why maybe I like being single so much, not because of the hangups or the emotions I do not really want to have, but the total numbness to the parts of my life I would really like to experience but cant because some person is hogging the attention.


Also my emotions. 

A hundred minutes to spare.



It is just the wind that is constantly blowing on my face while I sit here waiting for it to end and for more minutes to pass. I am lonely and do not know whether I should be scared of everything. Plainly, there is just nothing there except for some little clues to many different paths, all I want to explore but sadly do not know where all lead. Little clues to the future that show nothing but my face, the background not unclear but barren, all because I am young and scared, and I am with various people but faces I do not see. This is the setting of my future: a surreal painting I question if finished or just have come undone, abandoned or have come to the ultimate fruition. It is a testimonial on how my present is: diminished, alone and unsure. What is this hesitation, and what is it about all these questions and the rudimentary guilt: have I made a wrong call? I could not be more sure of the decision I made, but is it only for my comfort and have I misled myself into thinking that I have done something right? I boiled inside waiting for myself to gather up the words that would lead to my resignation. It was very comfortable, i was sure then, but now seems to be too calm to be comfortable. So here it is, in my face, the question if I had done it right, because it is my life, and it is not just here and now, but the after tomorrow and through to the coming five to ten years.

I worry about the opinions of my parents, and I worry about the worries of my former peers. How was it that I had been so sure while hidden beneath my convictions were all these opinions and worries. Was I trying to defy them just to satiate my own thirst for rebellion? Did I just end up encroaching my own set path in order to rebel, and ultimately rebel against myself? If I still have to rebel, what am i? What am I still? Or is this all a conscious rational choice borne out of my own demands to be a person that I don’t look down to nor cower from, but respect? Is this a path to self-respect? What are all these questions then? If this is a process that I should take, then the choices I made within the past month were perfectly rational. I am rational. I am on my road to completeness, transcendence and maturity. But how should I be assured if there is just nothing but this cave continuously widening inside, echoing the opinions and the worries that I did not plant myself, but by the people who know me and care for me and my life?

Granted I have some responses that seem to make better of the situation, but I cannot sell to myself a clear statement out of little pieces of responses. The most important responses should be from me. And as I sit here doubting myself, I become deaf to my own potential and I become weak without my determination. And who am I to validate my own potential when I absolutely have nothing to show and seemingly no one to disprove. Was it just false determination then to quit my job, I ask myself now, and do I not have a sincere determination to go after what I really want for myself, using the potential I see very vaguely and wielding it with very hesitant hands. You can tell me that I am afraid and with much trepidation, but I cannot help myself. I’d be glad to see this familiar trepidation in successful people’s pasts, hoping that I will see myself in them. I hope to see something like this sensation bordering hopelessness and I hope to manage myself to encourage my knees to carry me on my feet.


This is me grasping for an honest reassurance, and while I do not want to be told how wrong my life has become, I would like to ask for honesty. The wind still blows, the sun on my face, I have been sitting here, waiting for my life to change. 

Friday, April 18, 2014

What's in a portfolio?

I badly need a portfolio. After many years of writing like this, I have come across something inside my head (a thought), that I might want to do this for money, and if I’m lucky, a living.


I have asked around, and apparently I need a portfolio. But what is it, and how do I come up with something resembling one? I don’t know.


[silence]


Now a portfolio, i assume, is an imaginary folder containing one’s non-imaginary body of work. Writers have it just in case someone [an employer] wants to look at what he has done.

I have done nothing. Well, I have done some things. But there might not be anything worth looking at. But there might be. So how do I pick out what makes sense to other people, considering that I write solely for my own satisfaction and do not intend to inform, ask and entertain an audience? Do I even have an audience?


Should I look?


[silence]


According to my blog stats, I have some page views, but no one has ever reacted to what I have written, but that might be due to the fact that I am inside my own little head, and the voices talk to me, and then I debate with myself, and so no one gets me. I do not get myself, even.


[silence]


So where and how to begin? Now is the best time to REACT, people who are reading me. You might have strayed into this blog unintentionally, and you might think youre treading dangerous waters, but not really. My writing is safe for everybody. I mention sex but do not get explicit [I mean, why would i?]; I harbor darkness but come on, I am not the darkest you’ve read. I am alone, but not lonely. I am deep inside happy, if you’ve been wondering: I am just sporting this crust of dark sadness, because it is in my nature, not because I want to drive people away. I am totally fine with interaction and I would appreciate some really rad comments. Well, I need real comments most of all: I need to know how I am doing. How do I know if I am bad or good if no one places a comment? How do I know if the page views are real?


I am marking this day, April 19, 2014, as the day I open up my blog and accept that I do not only want to write for myself but also for other people. I shall ask the questions like “what should I write about?”; or “Are you sure about your comment?” later on. First, I need some people to be my tenacious demographic body. Do people like me, or do people hate me? Of course, I won’t be sleeping with any person here, because I have a high level of respect for people who read.


[silence]


ANYWAY.


I am making myself public. HERE GOES NOTHING. But I am hoping to get something, and i am optimistic about getting somewhere. Thank you.

 

-JAMCS

Worry for only 15 minutes per day.

Only? Exactly my reaction. I read in a HuffPost article how positive thinkers deal with worrying: one step they do is to make a part of their day, and even a spot, when and where they can worry, then outside of it, no worrying is allowed. How is it that I am totally a non-believer, although why shouldn’t I try it?


Worrying has been part of all my waking moments: the alarm clock starts to alarm, I wake up, worry about the traffic; and about the time I need before I need to go; and if I should have breakfast; and if I am going to be late if I leave at this time or should I just go early. It’s a meticulously put-together mechanism built inside of my head: the process goes well = I am more or less saved for the day; meanwhile, if the gods be angry at me = my life goes to shambles. Everything matters: details, parts, the manner of doing things, because all I want is a good outcome and it will be unbearable not to get what I need, not what I want. I need something in order to continue my life, based on how my life has been planned, or anywhere where my parents would least judge me. I am not a guy who wants many things, and the I want, I don’t really go for until I realize I need them. Hence, my shopping sprees. Kidding.


So here, in the spirit of mental wellness and maybe trying to balance myself, and decrease the worrying, which leads to my never-ending battle with depression, I shall try to be more positive and make this 15-minute habit possible. I am not one to consult a self-help book, because I have only Tina Fey to guide me, but I am willing to do this, and the first step is always the trying.


Whatever.


I need to make a mental note that I shouldn’t try and disprove this method. I need to believe in a method. Besides, this is from Huffington Post, why would they mislead poor me?


So this marks the days of being worry-free. Well, worry-free outside of the 15 minutes per day. Also the article recommends other things that positive people do that negative people just do not do, some mainly due to acquired attitudes, but the will is strong and I am flexible, and if this doesn’t work there are other ways, and there are drugs and mental facilities. So I shall not worry!

Monday, April 14, 2014

This waiting game.


Last night I slept soundly. I slept through the Monday morning, past the sunrise, past the rush hour blaring outside my windows, past everything ungodly in the morning. I started at around two in the morning and decided to finally accept the consciousness at 12, and even then I wasn’t ready to get up. I finally did get up at around one in the afternoon. It had been a really slow phase, like I was waiting for a jolt; it felt like I was the only person in the world entitled to wait on a Monday morning, and no one waits on Mondays.

I did this because I had nothing waiting for me. A Monday morning free from the rush, and I was the only person not doing it, I was decidedly on slo-mo, thoughts and all. It was like a push-button setting made for me and I was the only one. The. Only. One. While everybody was at work, carrying out orders for an empire, I was in bed, slouched forward, craning my neck, staring at the wall facing the foot of my bed, endlessly trying to plan something, but failing to have something materialize. This start-fail exclusively happened in my bedroom, in my bed, with me in my underwear from last night, surrounded by the geography from the many hours past: wrinkled sheets, a blanket spread-midway, damp pools of saliva, and three pillows as margins to the chalk-outlined sleep scenery. In this scene, the only question that gets an answer is whether I should sleep some more, because what else is there? Work emails? Annoying.

So what else was there? There was nothing else. No one was available. It was a Monday morning. What was to come? Many things hatched this morning. Again, a Monday morning. It felt like an especially fast part of the day, because it was a Monday morning, and in contrast, my life felt especially slow. I was a contrast to the pace –a pace I used to be in tune with. Just last week I was alive with the prospect of doing something, practically anything, and no matter what time I got home, I was ready for something. It didn’t matter then if there really was something, only that I was ready.

And then this sabbatical sort of thing happened and I’m here, my insides quickly accepting the vacant week ahead. I want so badly to do something, but there is no intensity in that need. Because the passport renewal I need to go to next week is the only thing standing in between me and my work, and until I have a renewed passport, I will not be able to work, even for just office duties.

I want so badly to have a short term goal for the next few days. I have nothing planned, except for the renewal appointment, and then nothing, nothing. Not a thing. And now I am typing without even thinking and the people might be thinking I am just pretend typing but hey I am really typing something.

Not working might have driven me closer to the edge and I am sorry this is incredibly sad and stupid. Gosh.

Why do I even bother chronicling this? I am being unfair to the days when things have actually happened, and were good. I am just mumbling about not doing anything.


I am mostly worried, yes. But maybe also I am berating myself silently for miscalculating the date of my passport renewal. So yes I might be mad at myself for failing to do something a child would have had no hard time with. Was it my choice? No, of course not and also this is why I am fuming. I wasn’t neglectful, I even planned it, and I just counted the months backwards incorrectly. I should have renewed a month ago. See this is how I find myself so easy to hate: I overlook details, and now I am freaking out.

To offset my stupidity I chose to have the renewal rushed, but the date [see above], is just too late. I tried looking for people who work in the passport renewal place, but no one I know knows anyone who does. And the ones who have had gone through renewal before, they say that the date I have is okay. It’s the earliest possible. So I’m here waiting, without anything urgent, without flying hours and ergo, no money.

But the thing with money is, I do not want to worry about it like any ordinary working person. I want to brush it off and if I should scrimp, so be it, and it wouldn’t be a problem:  I am resourceful. Maybe. This hasn’t been proven so it might happen or fail, but I like to think money is just a thing not all people need, and not all people should work for it. Maybe I want something that makes me happy not only by making me rich. How noble. And how hip.


This is temporary.

This is temporary.

This status is temporary. You will think about the positive things, which won’t be hard because this situation has more good than bad. You haven’t lost your job, no one is really mad; no one deeply hates you as a person. They respect you for your issues and how you choose to deal with your emotions, however hard it might seem for you to control the level of your volume, and how moderation is lost on you.

You’ll get over this. And you have plans of moving onto something you will be much appreciated not for your smile but the skills you know you do best, these that make your heart sing; these things that make you feel whole, and make people genuinely feel good for you because you are damned good at it.

Have your coffee or your tea, but into your croissant, go on. No one is pressuring you. The only thing you’re waiting for is the right time. No time to stay if you think you’re stuck or going to spend a lifetime getting stranded, plane to plane, in between flights, the delays, the people, the bosses, the voices –everything about and around this is temporary, and so is this sadness. This depression is crucial. This pain will make you better and it will do its best to heal you, for all of the things you think you lack, and the deficiencies your superiors keep seeing in you. Make this depression your determination. Turn it around and learn to tune the negativity out, because what is a life spent in absolute gloom? No fun.

You will have the schedule, no need to hurry it. And besides, you did your best. No one can do anything about that now.  Just chill to therefore live this break because you need to feel that you deserve it, and no one can take away what you have been blessed with, and this break has been given for you to enjoy, and think about your life. Do not freak out about going back, or even about going away. Everything’s going to be fine. Everything is going to work out well, because you’re smart, and you think about things and you have your prayers.

Just relax, do not think about Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays or any of the weekdays. This is a special week for thinking; no one is asking anything of you. Just have fun and take your mind off work and it will all fall into place.