I don't know why, but I hate working on the weekends. I don't know what it is, but I can't even muster up the energy for laundry. It seems even more irrational now that I don't have a regular working schedule. I make my own hours. If things need to get done, I should do them. Any old time that I want to do them.
So why do I still think the weekend is precious?
Sure, I could blame it all on my fiance, because he's at work everyday, I can't see him. Sure, I see him at night, but it's not the same. You're cramming everything in. Dinner. TV watching. Quality time. Whatever. We have those precious few hours each weekday night.
Then the weekend comes along and I'm all party. I take partying pretty seriously. I mean, if you think of partying as being super lazy and lying around your apartment watching Adult Swim on Hulu and episodes of Conan, then playing video games and then eating some cinnamon almonds. Yeah, we're big time partiers over here! It's crazy that the neighbors don't complain more!