It's Friday, guys! I'm off. Have a nice weekend.
Guys, what are those faces? Let's enjoy life! Happiness.
It's Friday, guys. Fry-yay! Come on!
Man, you're so bitter! Guys, the weekend's coming, and the work is over! Is it Friday or not?
Friday "my ass", Marcia. It isn't for anybody else. I don't know what sugar daddy with low self-esteem is fucking you to put this fake smile on your face at 5:30 pm on Friday.
No one else's happy because happiness costs a lot. You think people leave here and go where? To Beach Park, to Dubai?
We go back to the same depressing 1-bedroom as we do every day, but now we'll take a bunch of pills to knock us out the whole weekend. To forget that Monday it starts all over again. We work in this shitty job the whole week, doing nothing, pretending to work in a fake excel spreadsheet then we face a 3-hour traffic jam to go back home and do nothing there, looking at the ceiling, but in a place where I pay for wi-fi myself, Marcia.
I wish I could stay here, at least I can enjoy the AC at the company's expense. At home, at 8:30 am on Saturday mornings, I wake up with my balls looking like a baked potato, that's how hot my place is. That house has turned into an oven.
We don't give a shit about weekends. Faustão gives a shit about weekends. He's chosen to work five times more at Band TV to not have his name linked to weekends.
Do you know what weekends are? Weekends are the parmesan cheese, a thin and tiny slice of parmesan cheese on top of the shit sandwich that is the routine. But it's human shit, Marcia, shit that comes from the feces of people stirred together.
I wish I could work from Monday to Monday. Nonstop, Marcia. at least I wouldn't have the false belief that it's worth working 80% of life to pretend to enjoy the other 20%, when, in fact, it's not like that.
Happy, Marcia? Fuck you, Carlos. Nice Friday to you too, Marcia.
