Thursday came and went like an unwanted stepchild—barely noticed, definitely not invited to stay. But guess what’s next? TGIF, baby! We’re so close I can smell the cheap beer and sweet freedom.

But let me rewind this dumpster fire of a Thursday. Found out the suits I momentarily work for decided they don’t want to keep me or some of my crew. Why? Because the almighty federal and state grants didn’t stretch far enough. And God forbid the actual employer—think city government here—would pull their heads out of their budget spreadsheets and match the funds.

Nah, these clowns wouldn’t know loyalty if it came up and bit their fudge-packin’ ass. And then, cherry on top? I find out their “new budget strategy” magically found extra funds—which they’re using to buy office furniture and shiny new computers.

Seriously, you blimey cunts?

But here’s the kicker: I don’t even care anymore. I gave these people five loyal years, and when you cross me, well… let’s just say hell and high water both take notes. Not petty, just Saint Dirty Face doing what he does best—letting karma pack their sorry asses.

So what did Thursday look like for me? Picture this: me kicking back, surfing the web like a pro, answering one lonely email every 5 hours just to keep up appearances, then diving back into my game. Relaxed. Untouchable. At peace.

I’m not worried. Not even close. Yeshua’s got the next chapter lined up, and I’ll land where I’m meant to land.

Evening rolled in, and I took my queen on the only pilgrimage that matters—Walmart snack runs. We strolled those aisles like gods of junk food, Ozzy blaring, driving down the road of destiny with the Mrs. by my side.

Till tomorrow…

Live hard, bitches.

— Saint Dirty Face