I'm sorry for being such a crappy friend.

Dear David: I missed your birthday. I didn't send flowers, chocolates or even a card. I left you a voicemail, which seems technologically more sincere than a text-message, but the two are basically the same.

After a week of saying no to Monday night art parties, yes to Wednesday night six-packs, and penciling in coffee dates between early classes and late nights at the office, it's finally the weekend.

But in a city where we work second jobs not to pay rent but our tab at the bar, is it ever really the weekend? We've quickly become entitled to dancing on Thursday nights and accustomed to shaking off Saturday morning hang-overs to finish up the work we didn't necessarily get done during the week.

We've learned not to ask our friends how they pay their phone bills, and instead inquire on how they managed to borrow their designed duds in time for a fashionably late entrance to an early party. The latter is always the more interesting story.

For a Saturday afternoon, I'm doing just fine. I've had two coffees and three advil, much to the disdain of my roommate, whose habits are healthier (and smarter) than my own. I've made plans for the evening, finished an article for the job I'm keeping and need to hop into the shower and get ready for one of my last shifts at the job I quit.

But for what it's worth, it could be Tuesday.