I imagine it French

Happy Labor Day weekend. Though, Labor Day is never nearly as good as Flag Day.

I awoke this morning to the sight of many men on the couches and chairs asleep, and typically, I'd turn up the jukebox as loud as it would go and play the Happy Birthday 45 that's on it. But, today I didn't mind. I didn't mind the pizza boxes spread out on the table and the counter by the bar. I let them sleep and didn't try to clean up after them. Today might be a good day.

I hate this time of year because I always find myself walking into the school year with my eyes rolled into the back of my head, and then the switch gets flipped. I begin to appreciate the deadlines and the sociological readings of "How to Become a Marijuana User"and the "Talk Dirty to Me." The best part is again producing worthwhile prose. The feeling reciprocates--I love this season for the reason that I can drink Green Tea with a dash of honey and not sweat from it as the weather isn't that warm anymore. It means I can go through that stage where I replace all of my lightbulbs when everything gets to be too much to handle and I convince myself that I'm not seeing enough sun and that's why I'm low keyed--because the light, and the heat of the light trick me into thinking the world won't fall apart and that even though it's hailing in Wisconsin, I'm unaffected.

The only thing I haven't been able to figure out is whether or not this cat, and this cat are speaking in French accents to me.