Thursday night is not a night.

Thursday night is a fuckin trap.

It sits in the calendar like it?s harmless, when really it is just Tuesday wearing confidence and bad intentions.

It is not a weekend.

It is not a plan.

It is a bad idea with rent.

You are at home staring at the wall, arguing with your dog about whose fault your life is.

He just blinks at you like, buddy, I lick my own ass and I am still ahead of you.

So you call your buddy.

He answers immediately, which means his night was already dead.

You both say the same lie at the same time.

?Just a couple.?

That sentence has ruined more lives than cocaine.

You grab a quart of rum and a 2l Coke because you are adults who still think eyeballing shit counts as math.

You drink it in the parking lot like you are warming up for court.

By the time you walk inside, you love everybody.

The bartender.

A strange guy with the big patch of hair missing above his left ear.

A coat rack that looks emotionally available.

You do not buy another drink because your soul is already on airplane mode.

Whoever can still say Wednesday without sounding like a lawnmower becomes the designated driver.

You lean on the banister watching your buddy hit on a brunette in a pink mini skirt so badly she almost calls security and her mother.

You tap your foot.

Feel the music.

Think, yeah? I still got this shit.

That is when a cute blonde taps your shoulder and says you should dance with her.

In your head, you are smooth as hell.

In real life, you grab her waist and immediately slide sideways like a drunk washing machine falling down church steps.

You recover by accident.

No bones snap.

And somehow, it works.

You dance all night like your knees just signed a waiver.

Your buddy stands nearby pouting like a toddler who dropped his ice cream into dog shit.

Lights come on.

And She is still cute.

That is a fuckin miracle.

She says her friends ditched her, and she needs a ride.

Before you can answer, your buddy volunteers like he just found Jesus and forgiveness.

Which is good, because you could not drive a shopping cart in a straight line.

You pull into her driveway.

She asks if you are coming in for a beer.

You start to say no because consequences technically still exist in theory?

?and your buddy shuts the car off and gets out like this was a group assignment.

Absolutely the fuck not.

You are not letting this idiot harvest crops you planted.

So you go inside.

Buddy collapses in the easy chair in under thirty seconds. Spirit gone. Body present. Problem solved.

You are on the couch, making out like teenagers who stole house keys and dignity.

You stop because even unconscious, that is still your buddy.

She smiles. Takes your hand. Leads you to another room.

Things get enthusiastic.

Not poetic.

Not classy.

Just enthusiastic as hell.

Then she makes a sound.

Not a normal sound.

Not a human sound.

Not a sound that belongs to the body, voice, or species you have been dealing with all night. She sounds like a wildebeest giving birth.

You blame the rum and keep going because you are brave and fuckin stupid.

She makes the sound again.

Now your brain slams the brakes so hard your soul hits the windshield.

You turn the light on like you are checking an engine after hearing metal scream.

Everything looks normal.

But the sound?

Buddy.

Something in the universe is broken.

She passes out cold like her shift just ended.

You slide out of that room like a burglar who stole his own self respect.

You wake your buddy.

You leave.

You drive in complete silence.

Halfway home he looks at you and says,

?You sounded? like an animal in there.?

You do not answer.

Some nights are not one-night stands.

They are one-night stances.

And you walk away from them forever.

?????????????...and that's callin' it like it is!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Canadian artist & digital troublemaker Colin John Cook shares his louder-than-life, awkward, and honest-as-hell stories. Packed with humour, real talk & creative insights in a no filter, digital comedy space that laughs at life & calls it like it is. He is also the Founder and President of

The Hidden Gallery - Art Studio & Micro Theatre