J Bov Explodes Rhetorically


For Every Day Is Sunday

Ever get that feeling that life is just a procession of Sundays?

Nothing happens on a Sunday, but you always notice when it rolls around.

Maybe because you have a hangover; I don’t drink right now so I don’t know. Maybe it’s the one day you get off work a week; I don’t work right now so I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the sheer electric boredom of a day when nothing ever occurs. One way or another Sunday sticks in your mind like a twisting knife every week.

Perhaps we should do something about it. Perhaps we should designate Sunday to be our ‘Do Something Fun’ day.

Go for a stroll. Call up your friends, maintain a constant beverage intake and play card games for hours. Put on a silly hat and write gentle diatribes about inconsequential things like days of the week. Paint something.

Or maybe we can all sit about on our own, watching documentaries about Pink Floyd and listening to Portishead. Either way is good, I suppose, there’s really no objective way to say which activity is better.

Still, when Sunday rolls around I always find myself loath to do anything.

Then again, it’s not like if I was doing something I would be doing something. Something worthwhile, that is.

But what’s ‘worthwhile’? Good question. No answer. I suppose I could be doing something productive, but since the only productive thing I actually do is write it looks like I’ve got that covered, after a fashion. Except this isn’t worthwhile.

I’m only going to put it on the internet and watch it like a hawk. I should buckle down and get something off to My World Is Clouds for the second issue.

Sunday. Sunday, Sunday, Sunday everyday forever and ever and for all of time.

I need a cup of tea.

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