Fuck Monday

Mondays are very tough. They’ve been notoriously tough for just about everyone forever. I reckon cavemen probably scratched their head a few eons ago and thought fuck, not another Monday. I’m not on my own.

This is the worst it’s ever been though. Used to be I’d quietly groan thinking it was back to work again, but once in the swing of things it was pretty much just another day. Now it grips me the whole day long in a kind of existential torpor. I become a different person, gruff and internalised. I go about things reluctantly, and with difficulty, like an engine needing oil. I feel awful.

I take pride generally in being up for the fight once the bell rings. I believe in that, and still do, but the reality is that come Monday no matter what I believe I feel something completely different. And feel is the right word. Come Monday I descend into a mini-depression that I can’t see clear of until the day is over. I’m totally unmotivated.

I figure it’s because I’m in a role that bores me clueless. The Groundhog Day elements of the job are reinforced come Monday, when there’s a full week ahead of it, and perhaps a lifetime of Mondays to endure. I look upon my work with disdain, and the small complaints I have about the organisation and management are magnified by discontent. There’s something malevolent in me deep inside come Mondays.

Do the time. I keep telling myself that. It’s a principled position. It’s a worthy principle – but on a Monday I don’t know how much more of this I can endure. And I’m absolutely fucked understanding the time-servers who do it for years on end. How can they manage that? I can’t.

It’s Tuesday today. It won’t be quite as hard. It needs to change though. I need to move on. It fries my brain, and I’ve got a lot going nowhere. I need to do something meaningful again.

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