Sundays are bullshit.
I’ve hated Sundays for as long as I’ve had school, or been employed with any sort of regularity. They’re bullshit, man.
Sundays are like airbags. You don’t want to need them. When they happen, it’s just padding before bad stuff happens. You like to know they’re there, or else Saturdays would be bullshit, too. But their actual occurrence is stupid and I can’t enjoy them beyond like 9:00 am. 10 means 11 is coming. 11 means lunch is coming, which basically means the whole thing is over and you better start just setting your alarm for Monday.
Sundays are like those slow-mo seconds before you rear-end someone. Sundays are like realizing the trash can is so full the lid won’t close. Sundays are like the third week after a Brazilian.
But Lionel Richie would have you think otherwise.
Once, a woman told me that you needed to treat Sundays differently to avoid the dread. By assigning fun rituals like movies out or fun dinners or things to it, you’d dispel the association and short-circuit your anxiety surrounding the day. I mean—I tried it. It was also bullshit.
I guess at this point, since I’m starting to like Wednesdays best (because they come before Thursday, which is always AWESOME because it’s the day before FRIDAY. Saturday is even on my shit list these days, though), I’m wondering if I can just spread that Sunday hatred so thick that it seeps all the way back. Wednesday is the new Friday; maybe Monday can be the new Wednesday some day?
Maybe poop will start smelling awesome—but, chances are, that’s a big negative.
Leave a Reply