Dear Two Dudes,

I know you’re only asking because you’ve got that box of beers there, on the next self-checkout carousel over, and you’re not sure if it’s legal to buy alcohol today. Can’t buy it on Sundays down here. Let’s ignore for a second that the beer aisle is darkened and uninviting on Sundays, so you would’ve had some warning if it were Sunday. Maybe you just don’t trust your environment to warn you that way. That’s probably some kind of wise.

No, what I want to say is this: Cheers, dudes. Cheers to your freedom. Cheers to your unfettered existence, not tethered to earthly constraints and mundane strictures like days of the week. Seriously. You’re out here trying to abide by our alien rules, when really you’re so unencumbered and relaxed, so fucking free, that you can lose track of whole days. They slide by as nameless bundles of hours. The sun comes up and the sun goes down, and the world spins, but you don’t divide that experience up into anything so cutting and severe and categorical as a day.

Who’s to say what Wednesday or Saturday even means? Who’s to say that those names have power over you? Who you are doesn’t change based on the day. What you do doesn’t depend on the day. You’re just living—floating, maybe, or gliding. Something airy and serene.

Truth be told, I’m sort of flattered that you asked us. Something about your shamanic detachment, your floating ethereality, suggests that you can spot an asshole. You know better than to ask someone judgmental, someone too tightly wound to tolerate your insouciance. That you asked us what day it is suggests that we’re cool enough to understand that sometimes you just don’t know. Sometimes, these things, they get away from us. We’re all just organisms trying to get by, right? Little ships on choppy seas.

It is Friday.

Warm regards,
Will Hindmarch