This is rather akin to documenting the trajectory of a really bad chin zit. Because I hate Sundays. I haven’t liked them since as long as I can remember. Melancholy, anti-climatic, full of dread.
I had a family friend/professional counselor once suggest I create a Sunday night ritual to look forward to—something to reassign emotion to the latter half of that worst day of the week. Sunday. It’s like a crampy colon. Nothing awesome is bound to follow it.
More controlling the input—in the form of Cuban toast and sriracha-drenched eggs, sunning cats, and a bottle of Beaujolais standing at attention for Monday at 5pm—because positivity’s where it’s at. At least, that’s what the kids are saying.
Sunday am.
Brunch at Kuba Kuba. And this little lady, just unable to stop grinding her cheekbones into this front stoop. It was as if she were bemoaning the pending doom, as well. See more of her antics over at Cats of the Fan. Dig those spots.
Sunday pm.
Cashed out. Was watching something on TV—don’t remember what—which is rare for me these days, unless it’s Adventure Time. Dig those overpriced booties.
Monday am.
Cannot. Will not. As stated on the ‘gram: “Cancel my 2:30. Cancel the noise.” I didn’t actually have a 2:30, but these Bose headphones + a little trance-y Deadmau5 did the trick for 8 hours of nose to the grindstone. Dig that side eye.
Monday pm.
Now we’re talkin! As stated on the ‘gram: “THIS IS HOW YOU MONDAY: get the hell home, hot shower your damned face off, Beaujolais in your drink hole, and DVRd epis of Adventure Time, with butt trees and other weird shit.” It’s true—and the Steve Austin-style aggression was totally necessary. You gotta take Monday by the balls, and that includes the part when you’re celebrating it being over. Dig that Bruno Debize 2010 Beaujolais.
This is how I Monday. Don’t say I never did anything nice for you.
-C.
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