Sunday. Not My Fun Day.

There's no time of day more terrifying than 10pm on a Sunday night. 

Terrifying, that is, if you have to leave the white cloudy heaven of weekend opportunity and head back into another work week. A work week of stress and deadlines and meetings where people in Dockers and polo shirts swivel back and forth around conference tables.

For me, the terror started around 4pm today. It was a suffocating sense of no longer having time to think about the world or watch old Humphrey Bogart movies or cook Chicken Kiev or call people I like who live far away or listen to all the bands that anyone I've ever met has told me I should listen to or sketch that children's book about the importance of being kind to animals that I've been dreaming about since the '90s. 

It's Sunday so I have to wash bath towels and underwear. I have to vacuum up cat hair and grocery shop for 17 bags of produce (Keep On Juicin'!) and resist the very strong urge to wish a pox on the skinny lady in front of me with a cart full of Dr. Pepper, cookies and Funyuns while I'm relegated to a life of greens and nuts. 

I want to stay up all night reading this stack of books: 

I want to spend three more days watching Noel Fielding interviews on YouTube and looking at his art, admiring his wonderful ability to put it out there. 

That would lead me to looking up info about other artists I like: El Greco and Chagall and Goya and Henri Le Sidaner. Which would lead me to reading about all the places I wish I could visit: Spain and Portugal and Finland and Iceland and Antarctica and Chile and Denmark and Greece and Wales and possibly Savannah, Georgia.

I've never seen The Road with Viggo Mortensen. Or all of Anchorman. I've never read The Sun Also Rises. I've never been to Gatorland. Or Graceland. Or volunteered with the Special Olympics. I've never listened to an entire Black Label Society song. Or seen the Iditarod. Or walked through Central Park at Christmastime. 

Another weekend gone, with none of these dreams realized. I did go to Sea World, though, and hand fed the mantas. They feel exactly what I imagine my spleen would feel like.

 P.S. While feeding the mantas, this conversation took place between myself and my friend, the zoologist: 

MFTZ: If you hold the fish like this, they'll take it right out of your hand with their mouths! 

ME: Neat! 

(A few minutes pass, but none of the mantas will eat the fish I'm thrusting at them.)

ME: It's not working. I'm shoving it right into their mouths but they just turn and swim the other way. Here, watch...

MFTZ:  Yeah. That's not his mouth.