Monday. It’s Monday. It’s Monday and I have to go to work. It’s Monday and I don’t want to wake up, but I have to, because for some stupid reason when I was kid I decided I was going to grow up to be a responsible adult. I throw the warm, warm covers off while cursing at that stupid kid that I was, may he grow up with acne, a girly voice and a crippling fear of spiders.
It’s a cold, rainy Monday. Half-asleep, I look for my clothes, not really caring about matching the colors. It doesn’t feel like I’m wasting my time if my eyes are barely open, you know. I walk into the bathroom and turn on the soft lights, brush my teeth with my eyes still closed, shave now because then it won’t matter if I cut myself, it will be fine by the time I hop into the car. Light off, and into the shower. I wake up slowly as hot water washes away the last hints of that dream I was enjoying so much, before Monday took it away.
It’s unavoidably Monday. Resignation sets in as the toast pops out. Being responsible is good, right? Right. A job means that you’ll have food on the table, right? Right. And you want to buy that stupid phone, right? Right. And work isn’t that bad, after all, you have some good friends there and lunch is always fun, right? Right! And Friday, o Friday, that most handsome of days, is just around the corner, you’ll see.
Fuck I hate Mondays.