Box
Verified SOF
- Joined
- Mar 19, 2018
- Messages
- 2,456
Dear Monday,
I know that you have spent a lot of time with that AWP guy, but we need to talk. And no, this isn’t one of those “let’s work it out” conversations. This is a we’re done
conversation.
Today our relationship changes. I’ve had enough of your cold indifference, your relentless cruelty, and your complete disregard for my well-being. You’ve been treating me like garbage for years, and I’m finally standing up for myself. Every week, you show up uninvited, ruining my weekend, barging into my life like some overbearing landlord demanding rent I don’t owe.
You don’t even knock, you just kick the door down, dump a pile of stress on my lap, and expect me to thank you for it. Well, guess what? I’m not thanking you. I’m done pretending this is normal. I'm sending you an invoice for the hinges you have destroyed. You’re exhausting, Monday. You suck the joy out of my life like a vacuum cleaner set to “soul-crush.” I spend my weekends trying to recover from the trauma you inflict, only for you to show up again, bright and early, with that smug little smirk on your face. “Time to get back to work!” you chirp, as if I’m supposed to be excited about spreadsheets, deadlines, and Karen from accounting.
Now...
...let’s talk about your timing. You always show up when I’m at my weakest; when I’m groggy, unmotivated, and still recovering from Sunday’s false promises of relaxation. You don’t care, though. You just waltz in, dragging your baggage of emails, meetings, and existential dread. It’s like you enjoy watching me suffer.
Oh, and don’t think I haven’t noticed how you treat other people. You’re universally hated, Monday. Nobody likes you. Even Garfield, a fictional cat, has been publicly trashing you for decades. You’re the villain of the calendar, the Voldemort of weekdays, the soggy cereal of life. And yet, you act like you’re doing us all a favor by existing. Newsflash: you’re not.
I’ve tried to make this work, I really have. I’ve tried coffee, motivational quotes, and even pretending you’re “a fresh start.” But let’s be honest—you’re not a fresh start. You’re a dumpster fire wrapped in a to-do list. You’re the reason people hit snooze, the reason coffee exists, and the reason I question my life choices every seven days.
So, Monday, this is it. I’m done. I’m breaking up with you. Don’t call, don’t text, and don’t even think about showing up next week. I’m replacing you with a three-day weekend.
Your Long-Suffering Victim
P.S. Tell Tuesday I’m watching them. They’re not off the hook either.
I know that you have spent a lot of time with that AWP guy, but we need to talk. And no, this isn’t one of those “let’s work it out” conversations. This is a we’re done
conversation.
Today our relationship changes. I’ve had enough of your cold indifference, your relentless cruelty, and your complete disregard for my well-being. You’ve been treating me like garbage for years, and I’m finally standing up for myself. Every week, you show up uninvited, ruining my weekend, barging into my life like some overbearing landlord demanding rent I don’t owe.
You don’t even knock, you just kick the door down, dump a pile of stress on my lap, and expect me to thank you for it. Well, guess what? I’m not thanking you. I’m done pretending this is normal. I'm sending you an invoice for the hinges you have destroyed. You’re exhausting, Monday. You suck the joy out of my life like a vacuum cleaner set to “soul-crush.” I spend my weekends trying to recover from the trauma you inflict, only for you to show up again, bright and early, with that smug little smirk on your face. “Time to get back to work!” you chirp, as if I’m supposed to be excited about spreadsheets, deadlines, and Karen from accounting.
Now...
...let’s talk about your timing. You always show up when I’m at my weakest; when I’m groggy, unmotivated, and still recovering from Sunday’s false promises of relaxation. You don’t care, though. You just waltz in, dragging your baggage of emails, meetings, and existential dread. It’s like you enjoy watching me suffer.
Oh, and don’t think I haven’t noticed how you treat other people. You’re universally hated, Monday. Nobody likes you. Even Garfield, a fictional cat, has been publicly trashing you for decades. You’re the villain of the calendar, the Voldemort of weekdays, the soggy cereal of life. And yet, you act like you’re doing us all a favor by existing. Newsflash: you’re not.
I’ve tried to make this work, I really have. I’ve tried coffee, motivational quotes, and even pretending you’re “a fresh start.” But let’s be honest—you’re not a fresh start. You’re a dumpster fire wrapped in a to-do list. You’re the reason people hit snooze, the reason coffee exists, and the reason I question my life choices every seven days.
So, Monday, this is it. I’m done. I’m breaking up with you. Don’t call, don’t text, and don’t even think about showing up next week. I’m replacing you with a three-day weekend.
Your Long-Suffering Victim
P.S. Tell Tuesday I’m watching them. They’re not off the hook either.
