Sunday nights = the brutal, forced consciousness of the misalignment between your hopes and desires, and reality.

How can you go so fast, weekend? You're always such a fleeting blur of Smart Start, Jameson and DVR fast forwarding. You're all that is good in the world. And yet you leave me…time and time again. You whisper sweet nothings in my ear. You let me sleep in. You let me toot toot, vroom vroom on scoot. Sometimes you tease me with embraces of sunshine. You make so many heartfelt promises, weekend. You're all that is possible; my ray of light, potential, and possibility. And then you disappear, leaving me and Sunday night staring at each other in awkward desolation.

Hey Sunday Night, learn some subtlety and tone it down a notch would ya? I'm well aware of the fact that in a few short hours I'm going to be bleary eyed and crammed on a bus next to a guy reading shit like this. Stop rubbing it in my face. Why don't you make yourself useful and at least come up with some good anecdotes to sum up my weekend during awkward small talk, coffee room questioning. That way I can stop pure panic mumbling in my morning depression haze. Stop reminding me of items on my todo list that didn't get crossed off. Stop reminding me how much money I spent. Stop nagging me to make my sandwich for tomorrow and pack my gym bag. Stop making me fold socks. Stop being such a dick!!

weekends rule