Dear God I Hate Mondays

In my mind Mondays don't exist. They aren't even within range of being called legitimate; they're merely one fucking annoying and recurring transitional stage between the week and the weekend, wherein not one person is fluently coherent of any personal implications the constant goddam curriculum superimposes like concrete waiting to dry -save of course for those jittering fuckers influenced by an unhealthily skyrocketed daily caffeine intake.

But as I rave in muted obedience, (I have been muzzled.) fettered to my invariable shackles -my cubicle before a glaring computer circa 1992, my classroom chair, my impenetrable yet pathetic space behind the counter of your local corner-store (You know, whoever I am or whatever the fuck I do),-the grey musty walls and the inescapable cacophonous clamour of the outside world, I must disregard that world.

Forget nuclear terror and third world poverty; discard all notions of homeless indemnity and terminal disease, loss and the subsequent medication (Zanex.)

Screw it all! I'm here; It's me, motherfucker! And what the hell do I care? My life is stacks for anyone-it all sucks, doesn't it?!

Oh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!

Wait a sec. One fucking minute, please.

-Oh, good god, what a privileged and spoiled brat am I...

Shit, this maudlin self-absorption is killer.

But I still hate Mondays.