They say it's called "Black Friday" because it's the time when retailers finally go "in the black" and turn a profit.
But it can also be, under the right circumstances, even blacker, and darker. Suppose it is overcast, and you have nothing to do on Black Friday. You're not at work, and although you imagine you can fill a spare day with productive or entertaining activity, you mostly sit around in your pajamas, unwashed, looking at the Internet.
It isn't so much depressing, but melancholy. But can we make Black Friday even blacker? We can! How? Bring forth
Emily Dickinson! (1830-1886)
Emily Dickinson was a shut-in who didn't give a rip about punctuation, titles, or anything else. Her poetry came from the Blackest of Fridays, an infinity-long afternoon of gloomy brooding unmatched in literature. Dickinson stared into the void and brought back reports such as this:
Sip some chamomile tea and dwell on that for a minute.
Oh, is it still just around two in the afternoon and this day is dragging on forever?