So I just got home from a week of long hours, challenging logistical issues, enough exercise to make my abs visible for the first time in years, hours upon hours of TED talk stimulation, and match after match of asserting my dominance in ping-pong.

Before tonight’s workout, I’ve sat down in front of my laptop to listen to a tune. There are a wide variety of songs at my disposal and I must choose the right one. My weekend, and perhaps my life, depend on it. I doubt that I will die if I choose the wrong song, but if I have a religion, it is a strong faith in chain reactions.

I could build on the momentum of my pong ballerocity and play Jedi Mind Trick’s “On the Eve of War” and take a determination into the gym where I push myself to new levels of fitness, in the process creating a chiseled physique, which I’ll casually pull out from under a Boo Berry shirt at the beach tomorrow. Women, both known and unknown, will scratch and claw for their chance to touch me.

Or, I might turn the volume up and dance friskily around the apartment to Mya’s “Free.” My female roommate will come home and cock her head and say, “boy, what are you doin!?!” I’ll temporarily ignore her, then turn, strut over to her, take her hand and start a dance party in the living room. Our other roomie will show up, join in, and we’ll decide to go to a party we’re invited to at a night club. As we ride to the bar, we’ll all sing loudly, dance terribly, and yell things like, “work it girl” to pedestrians of both genders. At least one of us will wake up somewhere other than our apartment and have to take two-hours worth of public transit to make it home.

Then there’s always the sick rendition of Ray Lamontagne’s “Jolene” on YouTube that would go well with the strange downtrodden mood that is lurking beneath this current current surge of adrenaline. Playing this song once, would lead to repeat plays, until I’m sending texts to people to whom I don’t need to be sending texts. When I press send, I’ll be confident a loving response is forthcoming. But minutes will pass, then hours, days. I’ll be lulled into a seemingly incurable funk that will affect my ability to make simple decisions like whether or not I need to go to the store.

And because I have now listened to “Jolene” six times in a row and need a jolt of silliness, I just searched “Fuck You” by Cee-Lo. It hasn’t provided the relief I was hoping for, so I’m gonna throw on “Block Rockin Beats” by Chemical Brothers, change into my workout clothes, then listen to “List of Demands” before bench pressing a new personal best.

The momentum of the workout will carry over into an affirmative RSVP to a going-away gathering. Jamming to Michael Jackson’s “The Way You’re Making Me Feel,” Spoon’s “The Underdog,” and Eric Hutchinson’s “Rock N Roll” on the ride to meet friends will cause me to drive more recklessly than usual, but the 80 mile-an-hour lane changes will cleanse my soul of any ill-thought and prep me for a night of dancing and making friends with a sexy half-black Bolivian artist who, within one week, will ask to see my bedroom.

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