Saturday of a three-day weekend, the third day of which I have been granted a paid non-work day due to the American penchant for honoring elected leaders as if they were gods.
I’ve eaten breakfast; thick sliced applewood smoked bacon, nine-grain whole wheat bread without any high fructose corn syrup slathered in real organic butter and the preserved fruits of the marionberry vine, and farm-friendly organically grown coffee beans, blended half-and-half with decaffeinated beans and beans meant for use in espresso, but ground and brewed in a drip machine, flavored with low fat vanilla soy milk and raw sugar.
I’m listening to Lady GaGa sing about being Starstruck while I sit here at my desk. I can raise my head to my right and look out the window, and see the occasional runner trudge by dressed most often in dark-colored form-fitting synthetic fabrics from neck to ankle as protection against the rain and cold. When I hit the F12 button on my keyboard, a transparent overlay falls over my screen and displays, among other things, a widget that tells me it’s 47º Fahrenheit in my zip code.
I take a sip of my decaffeinated and flavored coffee. Yeah. Saturday.