Sunday blows, and not in the good way. Sunday reminds us that the weekend is nearly over and the dreaded work week begins on Monday (cue The Bangles). This is not a good feeling. Sunday wriggles its nasty fingers around us and taunts us by saying: “Am I bugging you?? But I’m not touching you!!”
Sunday crushes that sense of possibility. You know the one. It’s that feeling you get on Friday when the workday is done and you have the entire weekend laid out in front of you. Go out with friends? Sure! Relax on the couch and watch Food Network? Okay! Spend hours upon hours working on that novel? Absolutely!
But no. Sunday afternoon rears its ugly head and spits a big fat loogie in your eye.
Here it is, Sunday, and there isn’t much I’ve accomplished. I did some laundry, and some dishes. I started a new short story. I’m on my second beer. I suppose that isn’t so bad. There are worse things in the world.
Truly, there was no point to this post other than venting. It’s just that I’m sitting here, at my computer, knowing there are other things I should be working on. Writing a crappy post about crappy Sundays is better than not writing anything at all. I think, deep down, that Sundays aren’t really all that bad, it’s just how I perceive them.
Basically, it’s my fault for being a lazy procrastinator.
Hey, look at that! I had my own little religious-like epiphany. Wow, between cleaning the litter box and taking out the trash, I’ve got me some good philosophical stuff going on in this noggin of mine.