If there’s one term I’d use for Sundays, it’d be ‘bittersweet melancholy’…or ‘melanchweet’. It’s a day that starts off with promise, with sunshine in your eyes and hope in your heart. And then it takes that hope and transforms it into a jagged knife that proceeds to slowly poke you to death.
Sunday is to me is what the Sun is to ice-cream – fuckin’ annoying.
I’ve been subjected to this slow-poke death so often by now that I wake up with Sunday morning sweats… a very common symptom of Sunday-Associated Stress Disorder. Studies have shown that the entire adult population of the world suffers from this. Granted, the only test subjects were me, my friends and my co-workers, but hey, we count too right?
No matter what I do on a Sunday, there’s always this nagging feeling at the back of my head that the weekend is pretty much over.
There’s few things worse than the creeping dread that accompanies every tick of the clock on a Sunday. It’s a wretched and resigned state of existence where hope is lost and despair thrives.
If Sunday was a person, it’d be that asshole friend who only calls you when they need something, and makes promises they’ll never keep.
Sure, the concept of a weekend is a social construct, but no amount of philosophising and rationalising can overcome this loathing. Sunday, in that way, is an insidious asshole, and I can’t fuckin’ stand assholes.
Why you gotta ruin the the fun, Sunday? Do you get some kind of sadistic pleasure from watching billions of us suffer?
Who doesn’t like good times? I mean, I like getting schwifty with my friends, watching my favourite shows in bed, practising guitar, reading, everything that seems to give life meaning. And no matter how much of that I stuff into a weekend, it’s never enough. Sunday always comes too soon (no pun intended). And to my utter dismay, I have to wait another 5-6 whole days to get the good times back.
Suck a dick, Sunday.