Day three of this laboriously long three-day weekend and I can’t believe I actually want to go back to work. Cabin fever does strange things. Television is boring, my CDs are dated, and I’m actually tired of laying in bed (can you believe it?).

Yesterday, I decided to venture out amongst the townspeople and snap a few pictures. Batteries died right in the middle of downtown and I didn’t have any spares. I trekked back home and watched Mad TV. That was fun.

Can I just say that I hate summer? It’s always been the season I liked the least ever since I was little. When other kids were off on their summer vacations and having fun with their friends down at the local pool, I was stuck inside doing book reports for Death-Phoenix and being told to not leave the house until she got home. Of course, when she got home, I still couldn’t go anywhere. Her words: “I don’t want you getting kidnapped!” Even when I was in college, I spent my summers working ten- to eleven-hour days with NASA, not off having fun and being young and stupid. So whenever summer rears it’s ugly head, I get full of dread.

Granted, now that I’m older, I could easily take the time off work and go do whatever I please…but what would I do? Who would I see? Who would want to see me? So I’ve ended up staying at home instead of paying $200+ to find the answers to those questions (especially if the answers are nothing and no one). Summer is supposed to be a time to have fun and let your hair down and get wild…but I don’t think I have it in me to do it. Maybe I’m just an old fuddy-duddy. Or sober.

Add to this Death-Phoenix‘s call early this morning to talk about “my social life” and I’m just wishing we could fast forward to September or October when staying inside is en vogue.

“So what are you doing for Memorial Day, Karshie?”

“Umm…I dunno.” Keep in mind she woke me up at the ass-crack of dawn just to talk. “Probably stay at home and sleep.”

“Karsh, do you have any friends? Someone you can hang out with or who can come over to your place?”

I can count the number of people who have been to my place in the past year on one hand. It sucks.

“Well, some friends of mine went to DC for Memorial Day and…”

“You need to get some more friends, Karsh. You know I really feel sorry for you sometime.”

Ticket for one, please. Destination: guilt.

“I was just worried about you…you’ve never been a really social person when you were growing up, and I just didn’t want you to sit at home alone like I know you’re doing right now.”

“The only reason I wasn’t a social person when I was growing up was because you drilled it out of me — you wouldn’t let me go to parties, dances, basketball games, or even over my friends’ houses. Thank God I joined the marching band or I would have never seen life outside of Alabama!”

It’s not entirely her fault. Even when I got to college, my friendships lasted about as long as the life span of a fruit fly. It was mostly because I got so used to people wanting to be friends with me because of what I could do for them that I just nipped it in the bud once I saw those traits surface. And of course, they would get mad if I couldn’t (or wouldn’t) come through for them on account of their selfish requests. It just felt better to kick it solo and observe others, but that got really old really quick. So, I retreated to my fortress of solitude, only to depart for supplies and work.

Then my mother gives me a phone number. “This is Etta Mae’s boy from down the street from Ma’dea’s house. Maybe you can give him a call and y’all can go do something for Memorial Day. He’ll be expecting you.”

What the fuck? Is she hooking me up? Did she just arrange a play date for me from 300+ miles away?

“Maybe y’all can go to that company picnic you told me about. Wouldn’t that be fun, hm?”

More to come I’m sure. Can we just get to Fall already?