Saturday Nights

Eric Trondson-Clinger

Go home to my oh-so-alone apartment for a drunken wank and no-shirted dizzy sleep. And achy muscle morns. From the dancing. I must look like some big damn whore fool to not ever have one girly to dance with. I just don't get shit. Yeah, I'm real fuckin smart, ma. I can't keep up.

And on the too frequent occasions I have no one to play with, that in itself enough to be sad and slow, there are all the damn reminders that everyone else is out rockin' this town. You've gotta keep yerself busy in these times to not think of it. So the cleaning of the apartment or video games or tv of staying at home. At the 1:30 notch of my cleaning, my drunken Negro neighbors get back, filling the halls with loud celebrations.

The full parking lots of Embers, Perkins and Porky's, during the bar rush on the way home and also the traffic patterns even. The busy eastbound 94, all my St. Paulites returning home from Minneapolis and their night of nights, and the empty westbound lands of no more parties in the sister shitty city.

So that no matter what you do, there is no way out of the sad, slow Saturday night.

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