It's Fr... Frida.... Frid (whump).

Oh, dear lord, it's Friday. I didn't think this day would ever come, and I feel like I crawled to the finish line on my hands and knees.

Three-day weekend. (weak squeak of jubilation).

If smoking didn't cause a long, drawn-out death and my neighbors weren't crackheads who stole everything that wasn't nailed down, I would totally be lighting a cigarette right now and falling back into my pretty blue Ikea hammock (that's still in the packaging, because my neighbors are crackheads who steal everything that isn't nailed down). So maybe I'll just pour myself a drink and fall back into the sofa. Or maybe I'll just fall over.

Oh, Friday.

I love you.

I will always love you.

No one's sexier than you, Friday.

You're the - (snore).