I get home at 4pm. Phone rings. It’s The Silver Fox.

“I’m walking out the door, dude. I can’t take it anymore. I’ll be there around 6pm.” He’s using that I’m-going-fucking-crazy voice.

I’m feeling it too. The last two weeks have been very stressful. The closer I get to graduation, the more paperwork I have to fill out and the more hoops I have to jump through. I need to let loose.

This weekend isn’t going to be a calm, kick-back, sip a few beers and tell stories weekend. This weekend is going to be a sloppy ass drunk, blackout, wake up with the door wide open weekend. It’s gonna get bad.

I hang up the phone and immediately, without even thinking about what I’m doing, grab the icechest and start walking towards the door. I’m on autopilot as I walk down the stairs, get in my truck, and go to the gas station. I’m thinking about all the stuff I have due on Monday and how I just don’t give a flying fuck.

I walk in and grab a 30-pack of Coors Light. King size bag of ice under one arm, beer under the other, I walk up to the counter to pay.

“Hey Tom, is your friend coming up tonight?”

I can’t help but laugh. These cats know me too well. Hell, I’ve been going in there for almost two years now. I bet they go bankrupt when I move away.

I walk outside to my truck and oh-so-delicately arrange the beers in the icechest. Layer of ice on the bottom, perfectly spaced out cans so they can breathe, another layer of ice, repeat. I’m a god damn perfectionist. These beers are going to be so fucking cold by the time The Silver Fox gets here. I drive around the corner and park.

So now I’m home, I’ve got an ice cold ice chest full of ice cold beer and ice. I’m mad-dogging the bottle of rum on the counter. I’m fucking ready. The Silver Fox should be here within the hour.

Pray for us. Hope we don’t do anything TOO stupid…

See ya Monday.