If you’re anything like me, you limp through Mondays like a wounded fuckin’ fawn. You can barely think and you don’t know which way is up. As if it’s not bad enough that you got a total of eight hours of sleep over the past three nights because you were too busy facing beers, you have to sift through bullshit work emails and fake smile while talking to your co-workers who were clearly more responsible than you were all weekend. And while my Mondays vary based on the seasons and my weekend activities, they pretty much all follow the same structure.
3:30 a.m.: HOLY SHIT. Work nightmares on a hundred thousand trillion. Why am I drenched in sweat? Why is HBO GO blasting from my iPad? Why why why why whyyyyyyy? How the fuck am I supposed to go back to sleep amidst all of this mental turmoil? Pardon me while I recreate the baby scene from Trainspotting.
7:00: Ughhhhhhhhh, shut the fuck up, alarm clock. Between the shouting thoughts and night terrors, I feel like I just fell back asleep five minutes ago. *SNOOZE*
7:09: *SNOOZE*
7:18: *SNOOZE*
7:27: *SNOOZE*
7:36: *SNOOZE*
7:45: *SNOOZE*
7:54: Fuck it. I’ma just sit here for 6 minutes until 8. Why do iPhones have a 9-minute snooze instead of a 10-minute snooze?
7:55: Why does my bedroom look like a Bosnian prison and why do I smell like a Bosnian prison?
8:15: Chances of me shaving? 0%. I don’t have the time or energy after my lethargic shower where I barely wash the soap out of my hair.
9:30: *Sits down at desk, logs into personal email, receives Gchat that simply says, “not good today.”* That’s the fucking truth.
9:31: Yeah, totally forgot to put on deodorant today.
9:45: Tell myself, “You know, I’m not going to go out next weekend,” which turns out to be the biggest lie in the history of lies.
9:55: Coffee on coffee on coffee. Doesn’t matter how much coffee I try to inject into my system on a Monday. No amount will make me feel jacked up enough to enjoy my day. You could give me an IV drip of strong, black coffee infused with Adderall and my brain would still be a bowl of lukewarm oatmeal.
10:45: Holy shit, I just almost spilled a glass of water on my keyboard. That’s going to affect me mentally for at least the next 20 minutes. Completely stirred.
11:15: Finally getting over the mental devastation of almost spilling that goddamn water. How early is too early to eat lunch without having someone condescendingly say, “Are you already eating lunch?”
Noon: Yup, just set the single-day record for double-handed face-wipes and it’s not even fucking lunch yet. Co-workers won’t stop looking at me because every five minutes I let out an inadvertent sigh that ends with a “fuck.” I think I just heard someone ask why I look like the wide-eyed emoji.
12:30 p.m.: Super-psyched to eat this depressing-ass salad that I made myself out of guilt because I ingested 500 pieces of pizza this weekend.
1:05: Loooove all these emails flooding my inbox asking me, “Why didn’t you follow up with me?” and “Can you do me a favor?”
1:50: I need to session the Walter Mitty soundtrack on Spotify. That shit is uplifting as fuck.
1:55: Goddammit, Walter Mitty. You’re making me feel like a bitch for working a desk job right now. I need my life to me a lot more Into The Wild and a lot less Office Space.
2:30: Two and a half hours. Two and a half hours. Two and a half hours. Two and a half hours. Two and a half hours.
3:15: Do I buckle-down and crush it for the rest of the day or do I just mail it in and go balls-to-the-wall tomorrow?
3:16: *Looks around, opens incognito browser window, types www.grantland.com*
3:17: Alright, ya boy is HUNGRY. That salad did jackshit for my appetite. I’m going to go peer over everyone’s desk and see if I can spot any snackage that I can pirate.
3:20: “Oh, hey. You know, I had something I wanted to tell you this weekend and it’s completely slipped my mind. Are those Combos? I looooooove Combos.”
3:24: *Heads to the bathroom to wash Combo dust off hands.*
4:00: How. The. Fuck. Is. It. Only. Four. O. Clock.
4:55: I feel like the dog from the Beggin’ Bacon commercials but instead of repeating “bacon” over and over, I’m running around repeating “FIVE O’CLOCK” and panting.
5:01: *Beyonce walks out of work*
5:40: GIVE ME SWEATPANTS OR GIVE ME DEATH.
6:00: Legitimately the most difficult and important decision of the day: to beer, or not to beer? I really should have an AFD (alcohol-free day) but who the fuck are we kidding? Maybe I should have a glass of red wine instead. That kind of says, “responsible adult,” doesn’t it?
6:05: *Drives to the store and buys a $3 bottle of red*
6:15: What goes well with red wine? Ahhhhh yes, Italian food.
6:20: *Pulls into Little Caesars. Buys a Hot-N-Ready.*
6:23: *Opens pizza box in car, smiles with approval.*
7:30: Oh, fuck yeah, Monday Night Football is on. I completely fucking forgot.
7:35: Yo, this red wine got me feelin’ loose.
8:01: Will Chris Berman pleeeeeeeease shutttttt theeeeee fuckkkkkkk uppppppppp?
8:30: Fucking hell, when the fuck are they going to kick off?
8:31: *Pulls out iPad* My friends could kill me if they knew I was binge-watching The Mindy Project during Monday Night Football while drinking wine. Getting old fuckin’ sucks.
8:45: *Takes final piece of pizza from Hot-N-Ready box. Houses it.* Thank god for elastic waistbands and Pepto Bismol.
10:30: I don’t know what’s making me feel older, the fact that I can barely make it through half-time of this game without falling asleep or that fact that I’m still hungover from Saturday.
10:35: …did I just crush that entire bottle of wine? So, uh…. where are those Miller Lites…?
11:00: Dammit, my bed still smells like bender and booze sweat.
11:25: *Passes out with phone in-hand after scrolling Instagram for 20 minutes.*