**TGIF** The alarm screams at six, but Friday whispers back: “Not today.” Coffee tastes like victory, traffic hums a softer tune, the boss’s voice loses its sting— even spreadsheets look forgiving. Clock hands crawl, then suddenly sprint past five. Doors swing open like jail gates, and the weekend air rushes in, cool, reckless, alive. Shoes kick off mid-stride, ties become casualties on the floor, laughter spills louder than wine, music shakes the bones loose from Monday’s grip. Thank God it’s Friday— the weekly resurrection, the sweet rebellion of the soul that remembers how to fly for forty-eight golden hours. Raise your glass, weary pilgrim. The week is dead. Long live the weekend.
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