It's friday night, you have no plans, going home with no one. You bought a pack of cigarette with full heart of guilt and a cheap magazine you know you'll never gonna read. You are there again, your home, no one's there, not even a cat. You call everyone on the list, but of course your friends are all working overtime/ out of town/ having dinner with their another half. Under this circumstance you think it's pathetic enough to make an emergency call to pizza hut. Unfortunately, not quite as you've expected, you finish it all. You have the marathon Sex and the City screening or the Nth time replay of BJ thinking someone's out there knows what it feels like. In the middle of the TV you got sick because you simply eat too much pizza and drink too much beer. Here you are, in the loo, knowing that you have no friends, no one to hug and probably die alone in 50 years. You feel so fucking sorry for yourself it's like watching a Hollywood B flick that actually makes you cry. At that very moment you decide to leave the pretentious you behind and tell everyone about your pathetic life.
Tonight, you have another pizza and you realize, a friday night situation does not necessarily happen on a friday night.
