Monday, April 18, 2005
Case of the Mondays
I had to be to work this morning at 6 a.m. I set the alarm to 4:30 which, when timed right, gives me five chances to press snooze and then exactly 30 minutes to take an Irish shower (deodorant and cologne), throw on my filthy clothes which have been sitting on the floor, and grab a Red Bull and fly out the door. Like 95 percent of the world I detest Mondays, and like 60 percent of the world I detest mornings. I place in the top 99 percentile in both of these categories. I am by no means a morning person, especially when I sleep like shit. Today definitely wasn’t an exception. My dreams last night were full of strife and delirious sights of dancing little dogs wearing ruffs, pointing midgets with pointier noses, and horrible memories of rehab demons. I awoke with a start, fumbled about in the dark, and in my peripheral vision I caught fleeting glimpses of the ghost who haunts the house I live in. (I believe it was built in 1908, give or take a year or three)Luckily I’ve grown accustomed to these witching hour visitations; they no longer faze me. Anyways, despite my fitful slumber I decided this day would be different. Today would be the day I ‘Carpe Diem’ and accomplish the silly short-term goals I always set for myself, but usually ignore. However on my way out to my car a black cat crossed my path, I stepped on about three cracks, and a contemptuous little bird decided to poop on my hood, which as we all know leaves an unsightly white mark which takes ages to scrub out. Right then and there I knew I had failed. Today will be another typical, miserable Monday.
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7 comments:
I think your Ghost is Thomas Hardy. I think he haunts you because he likes the way you write.
Steve. Monday is not just a day of the week, it's an undisputable law of nature, like gravity. Or perhaps a small taste of what hell will be like...or purgatory.
Cori. If Hardy is my ghost then you may call me Tess. For as he did in life, with the simple stroke of a pen, he makes me suffer in death, nightly appearing by my bed.
Thanks for the kind words by the way.
Tattooed Brain. I'm so disenchanted with life as of late I no longer even celebrate Friday. Because I know it's two short days away from Monday.
You know what? I love this post. Awesome.
Yeah, Mondays lick. But you put it well.
My worst Monday ever?
I rolled out of bed, got up, showered, jumped in my car, drove to work, opened the store, grabbed the newspapers to stock, and saw that it was Sunday.
Fucking hell. I went home and went for a bike ride, figuring I was up anyways.
That's the easier story to tell than the real worse Monday, so there you have it.
(www.thelastditch.blogspot.com)
Steff, thanks for the kind words. You know your story reminds me of a very quirky habit I had as a kid. We carpooled back then and my ride would pick me up around 7:45 am. I would sit on the couch in the front room, half asleep, waiting to hear that beep which indicated they had arrived.
Anyways, on holidays, when I was off from school, I'd sometimes get up and get ready, get dressed and eat breakfast, and then sit on the couch and wait. I'd wait for about 10 minutes, then I'd go back to the basement, to my bedroom, and go back to bed. Why? Because this is something I used to ardently wish I could do EVERY school morning but never got the chance.
Bahhahaha. Freak. :)
Pessimism means never having to say you've underachieved.
Extraspecialbitter. True.
However, an underachiever such as myself is almost always pessimistic...and bored. A very volatile combination indeed which usually leads to crappy, extraspecialbitter poetry. ;)
Thanks for the comment and the link.
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