A PROSE POEM ... WHICH IS AN OXYMORON SINCE A POEM CANNOT BE PROSE AND PROSE CANNOT BE A POEM

Damn weekends.  They're too short.  Especially when there's nice weather and I just want the days to go on and on and on.  Back to the grind.  Blah.  Back to the mayhem and the construction and the rat race and the sick children.  Back to the car dealer because the check engine light came on when I was one mile out of my driveway on my way to New Hampshire.  I drove it anyway.  Freakin' pain in the ass car.  Not even paid for and it's already starting.   And there's no chocolate in the house.  None.  Not a whisper.  I wanted to go shopping, planned on it.  But now -- car dealer.  Not grocery store, not food, not snacks, not fruit, not milk.  Car dealer.  At least my paper proposal got filed.  Blah.  Weekends.  Thank goodness there's another one just around the corner.  I can make it.  Four-plus more days.  I can hang on.  It'll be by my fingernails, but I'll do it.  I can make it.  Almost Friday.  Well, it's actually Monday and it's April Fool's Day, but it's still almost Friday.  This coming Friday is closer than it was last night.  Hurry up, Friday.  Damnit.  Weekends are too short.  Damn them.