Jasper Cornwallis is working for the weekend. At least I should have been. I don’t mean working as working at my job. I mean working as the band Loverboy laid it out in the song “Working for the Weekend”. Now that I have a job the weekend is mine. Back in the day of freelance stone masonry every day was kind mine. You may get called down to the quarry but you didn’t “have” to go. It was a freedom that had the days running together to the point I didn’t know what day it actually was. Now that the weekdays belong to Mr. Charlie I know exactly what days Saturday and Sunday are and now that there is regular bread coming in the weekend is the time where I need to be baking it. I need to cast my line into the city and seeing what takes the bait. I’ve never been a competent fisherman though. Hell, I have trouble getting in the boat. I wait on sure for a wave to hit me and drag me out to sea. It’s happened before and when I am thrown back onto the shore I can say it’s the “will of the water” and has nothing to do with me. I can always stay on dry land and do my “Upper Body Yoga…for Beginners”. I’ll fall all over my self, sweat like a toilet, curse like a sailor, and have my face contort into the strangest expressions making it practically just like the act of love making on my end. I can complete the circle with the ultimate “love methadone”, masturbation. It’s the all the pleasure of the sexual act without the guilt of poor performance and the disappointed partner. So it’s Valentine’s eve and I am a lonely man screaming hackneyed shtick at the Sea of Love. I’ve swam in the sea before and I can’t say I’ve regretted it. I’ve had that warm feeling and whether it was love or bad seafood isn’t my call to make but there are always worse things than being alone. There are things you get from being alone that you can’t get any other way. I’ve gotten my share. So tonight I’ve put on my water wings and sit here typing this next to my space heater. It’s a Honeywell and I’ve named her Claire.
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