July 22, 2016 |
Now I know that Sunday is supposed to be the day of rest (yadda yadda yadda) but how is it possible to rest when the day is filled with dread? Well not the entire day, let’s say from 6pm onwards. Time feels like it is on fast forward from 6pm on Friday and then 6pm hits and it slows down. Second by second edging closer. And closer. To Monday. You can’t do it again, you just can’t. Thoughts racing through your head. “How can I hurt myself enough to not have to suffer another Monday, but not enough to kill me?” Is it possible to induce a coma that wears off at exactly 5:59 on Friday? You call up everybody you know. Begging for them to run over both your arms so you can’t type emails or pick up the phone. You need to break your legs too, you know your boss would make you learn to type with your feet. Bad idea. Food poisoning isn’t serious enough. Poison is a bit too serious. You’ve wasted too much time dithering now, it’s not 9pm. Fuck. Your ideas are getting more and more drastic. Blowtorch? Wrecking ball? Piranha tank? Missile? Then 11pm hits. You start crying. You don’t deserve this. You’re a good person. True, you haven’t attended church in a while, but its about goodness in your heart right? 11:45. Panic. You start praying to God, any God. Anyone who will listen. You’ll give to charity, sell your house, shave your head. Anything. Just to start the weekend again. Midnight. It’s too late, you failed. You can feel the Monday morning feeling settling in already. You resolve to come up with a solution by Friday – you’ve got 6 days. Maybe they won’t be that bad after all…
