This was originally titled Monday:  Please Choke on a Dick, but I figured that would only yield terrible (or AMAZING) search results for all of you.

My husband, when I’m sad or sullen, calls me Sunday Shawn.  This derives from anticipating Monday.  It starts usually about 3pm on Sunday.  It is not necessarily always the case – yesterday was a good Sunday.  So, Monday, I guess I should have been more sad-timez than I was, because you sure have shown me.  Already.  Asshole.

I woke up in a great mood, which is completely uncommon.  I don’t understand, Monday.  Why must you fuck with me?  It started so well.  Then, as I was happily eating my 1/2 sandwich for breakfast and packing away my cantaloupe for a snack, I feel a tickling in my nose.  Oh, what is that?  A bloody nose.  Awesome.  I wish I could blame all the blow I did last night (because that’s how Sunday nights roll in my hizzy), but no.  There is no reason.  Not a one.  As soon as I finish dealing with that, I leave for work and attempt to get in my car to go, but first I must dodge a swarm of wasps and promptly get hit in the face with our errant yet timely sprinkler.  Clean, clean, sprinkler water.  Delicious.

Then I walk into work after somehow making it without getting run over by a cement truck, and am immediately called into a sky-is-falling meeting.  Upon returning to my desk, an infuriating quarterly newsletter appears in my inbox that is Full of Misused Capitalizations, Punctuation Errors and Ridiculous Statements.  It will take all the willpower I have to not spend the rest of the morning DISSECTING AND RIPPING APART this pathetic excuse for a newsletter.  Breathe.  Not my job.  Calm down, English degree.

It is 10:35am, Monday.  Please show some mercy.  I’m eating cantaloupe, for Christ’s sake.  ISN’T THAT ENOUGH DO-GOODING FOR THE DAY?

Evidently not.  My friend just told me that she got in really late from a business thing in Vegas, got 2 hours of sleep, and her car wouldn’t start.  Clearly, both our karmas suck.