Dear Monday: go eff yourself

I left a double-shot of espresso on the counter at home this morning. Had no bread. Forgot to put on a belt. I had also slept about 90 minutes longer than I wanted to - intended to go for a run before it got so bloody hot.

Now the office fan blows dry air into my eye-sockets every 9 seconds and I brought couscous and vegetables for lunch, which I am not looking forward to.

In short, I'm grumpy. Not so cynical today, just mopey because Monday's - this Monday - is a reminder that each fleeting weekend draws us closer to... what, exactly? The next monday? Winter? Retirement? The Apocolypse? Or maybe just the sad realisation that my life of leisure - ie. post-post-graduate part-time employment coupled with freeloading off my parents (who are lovely) - has ended. And I have not a lot to show for it other than a decent collection of clothing from The North Face and a few merino wool undergarments.

But as the sun breaks through the freak downpour in KW and lights up the water on the concrete and Cassie asks me why I would say such a terrible thing to Monday, I have to remind myself that it's all a work in progress.

The downside of being results-oriented is that results are stupid. Nothing ends, there are no "final products," and I don't have to eat couscous. I can order Chinese with my teammates. I have options. Choices. And despite some of the (very) questionable choices I've made in my life, I'm going to get a million more before next Monday or winter or retirement or the Apocalypse.

Dear Monday: I didn't mean it. Can we still be friends?