To speak frankly, I'm depressed in the mode of protentive presentification. Tuesday - to speak vaguely - offers a permanent possibility of socialization. But it is very possible, by which I mean not that it's likely to happen, but that it's thoroughly besodden with not necessarilyness. Fuck it: there are many things that could occur, sending the plan off track. Even if said things don't occur, the chances of anything happening are pissingly low. And in addition to being a permanent possibility, it's also the sole possibility, and so when anything fails to happen, i know i'ma be buried low rest of the week.
Basically it's an eggs-basket scenario. Ach leiber Herr Kappus! I know what you felt! In fact that gives me a brilliant idea. I'll send a letter to Andrew Motion, bemoaning my life its vast and ghastly etceteras; he'll write back, and in 70 years it'll be published: Letters to a young arsehole.