Saturday night: sip something with enough firepower to knock reality out of focus. Sunday morning: wake up next to someone’s future wife. Collect your shoes and jacket, maybe wonder where your own future wife is waking up. Pick up coffee on your way to the train. Walk faster, man. Act like you want to be here. On the weekend you are on one of those planets in Interstellar where the clocks run faster. Every second of Saturday and Sunday time you have to pay back with 2.5 seconds of time during the week.
Monday morning: welcome back to Earth. Did you have fun while you were gone, have you recovered. Hope so. Now do your work, you owe us five days. Five days of hurdles, reporting for duty, telling your seniors it can be done. Do what you actually like to do in the leftover scraps of time in the evening. Five days to slog, two days to decompress. And this is the best case scenario; you want the Office Space life. This is reality, you need health insurance. People say to give up everything to follow your passions. Because it worked for them. But for every one of them, 75,000 others run out of money and boomerang back into the workforce and punch in at Red Lobster. One out of 75,000. You might as well be applying to NASA. Bad odds but still—odds. Tempting.
The next Saturday: walk through the metro station on the night of winter solstice as the homeless build cardboard nests. Give them your coins. Hope the young jackass in 2045 will do the same to you.