Each day I make a pledge to start afresh, wipe the slate clean, tomorrow is a new day and I'll be a new man. This mantra of mine was probably overheard and subconsciously stolen from some motivatonal speaker informercial, and I'm not even sure if its good advice, do we really think the solution to our problems could possibly lie in a 300 pg hardcover featuring a cover with a middle age man with an Armani suit, hired that morning and to be return by no later than 5pm, an addiction to teeth whitening, a minimalists dream with all-white backgrounds and giant-fonted last names only? Everyday I seem to fuck it up, probably because I don't put time limits on tasks, and end up doubling down on my later day work ethic, which sounds like an analogy to the US economy, my subconscious suggesting that I have been working sufficiently on my stock markets, futures, 'n' those things that I do. I'm always dissatisfied with my productivity though, which is a strange feeling because it seems to be suspiciously absent when I needed it most and a true nagger when I really couldn't give two shits. Either way, going to bars and clubs is hampering my progress, but particularly in my espanol, which is the mockery of my house, flashing me back to that Christmas reunion I attended when I was 12. I had a below-par Grade 6, no awards, no special grades, and one time I lost my U/14s semi final on a missed 3 pointer buzzer attempt. I'm made to look like a fool so all the other cousins can feel better about how they're not 'Colin', which once again is an analogy for the US economy, class warfare and all that, so I'll just zip my lips and get on with it.
Sunday is usually my day of godly rest, 6 days on 1 off, I hear a surgeon follows a similar procedure, and they're upstanding citizens when not overdosing girls half their age. Except my off-day means off-alcohol which may mean on-marijuana... I need a ruling on that, is getting toked in front of UFC and hilarious Mexican sitcoms classed as a night off? Ruling is in, *opens card slowly*, *clears throat*, still a day off. Until I break that highly respected rule with a trip to Molaka's, a cool live music bar, authentic atmosphere and fun party place. Perhaps a little on the chill side, if I had to complain, which I won't, because there's a mass shortage of these venues worldwide and I'd hate to give the wrong impression to potential entrepreneurs. Meeting a friend Jake, who doesn't understand he has no need to tell people he's from Florida, had the fortunate event of a few trout jumping into his fishing boat, in the form of his sister suggesting he needs to take her friends 'and show them around', temporarily in BA and temporarily insane for a week, allowing a temporary opportunity to whack the flipping sea swimmers with his oar and cook the prize. Looking closest to a drug dealer in the group leads me to be the 'how can you help us out?' guy, which is cute the first time and annoying the next 10. After a series of weird conversations, I left early, and they marched on to a random Brazilian club, I heard later to be ruined by the infamous 'flock leader want to go home' party killer. Early, as in, 4 am, which I assure to all you not living is here is the standard in a 9 year old's Argentine's bedtime. Still, it hangoverings me enough to stop my planned post office move, rumoured to take up to 4 hours involving 3 different lines. Fuck. I still have to do that. And once again, the doubling down continues. One week in my life, I'll crush it, run errands like Jesus, smite my enemies like God, and have something great for Friday night show-and-tell, a.k.a 'the go-to conversation for women you meet at bars'.
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