You make plans on a Thursday night. Parties on Friday and Saturday. That new film you've been waiting to see is out on Sunday. On Monday you find out if you got that new job.
Maybe you'll be the life of the party, or maybe you'll be vomiting from all the cheap wine and speed at 6am as someone tells you how they got worms when they were a kid. Maybe that line from the last scene will linger in your head for months, or maybe you'll walk out half way through.
Come next month, you'll either be thinking how to spend your fat new paycheck, or pulling on that McDonalds apron again; the stench of grease assaulting your nostrils.
My mind refuses to accept a middle ground. This will be the best of times, or the worst of times.