An Investigative Look Into the Days of the Week
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Monday: Akin to that of the disgruntled girlfriend harping on the fact that you may or may not have been hitting on the sweet senorita across the bar. Like a scorpion stinger in your side, she pierces into you, releasing a psychological neurotoxin that hinders basic motor function, debilitates sincere thought, and, last but not least, presumably kicks you in the balls at the prospect of another long, arduous week filled with the mundane and monotonous. Certainly, Monday is not one to be trifled with.

Tuesday, on the other hand, possess the reassuring qualities of a cold brewski after a hard day’s work. Certainly, the impact of a new, cumbersome week has all but worn off, and the scorpion venom from Monday has yet to be filtered out of your system. But Tuesday still manages to lull you into the calm, complacent sense of satisfaction that you have, in fact, successfully (hopefully) made it through Monday. If Tuesday were a gesture, it would be the hearty pat on the back, after knowing that you’re going to make it through a terminal illness, because, in many ways, you have.

Wednesday is tricky because of the societal connotation, or the notorious “Hump Day” title. You enter the day in a Heathcliff gloom, only to leave the office mesmerized at the fact that you are more than halfway through the week. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we? Wednesday is not unlike Tuesday, in the fact that it is still just another benchmark on the road to salvation. Like an overly anxious male teen bumbling with a brassiere, Wednesday holds the promising climax of weekend, just out of reach. For further clarification, picture a kinked garden hose, ready to blow.

If Thursday were a piece of writing, it would be Beckett’s Waiting for Godot. The only difference between the two is the fact that being so close to the weekend sure as hell matters, despite what those existentialist Frenchmen may surmise. Although, like Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, Thursday disappoints on the premise that the waiting is, in fact, endless. One may not ever reach the Mecca that is Friday, what with all the noise of some drivel being mucked about all over the office. Memos on cleanliness in the workspace be damned. With the promise of a raucous weekend on the cusp of fulfillment, one cannot help but feel giddy over the prospect of fitful bouts of drinks with cohorts and nearly endless sessions of slumberjacking that could rival a sloth.

Bringing us to Friday; TGIF, the big release, the final breath before nirvana. At last, one can bask in the glory that is the preliminary kick-off of what is sure to become a night for the ages. If Monday is the bitchy girlfriend, harping on your seriously adept macking skills, then Friday is the fabled friend with benefits, pushing and encouraging for all that you’re capable of achieving (which is, of course, tons). After slogging through another week of tiresome detail and inter-office telecom messages relating that ties must feature appropriate content (not the words “my other tie is a noose”). At last you are able to romp in the green-grassed Elysium of freedom, excitement, and, last but not least, enough drinks to supply the Irish military on leave.

If Friday is the chic Victoria Secret model poised for the runway, Saturday is the oiled-up Tropicana model on the podium. You wake from sleep on a Saturday afternoon like a bear from an undisrupted, six-month period of hibernation. You struggle to push past the thick velvety curtain of blear that lingers from such a sleep. After all cares and worries of a long week, you are finally able to bask in the buffer zone that is the middle of the weekend. Console yourself with the fact that this is probably the longest period you will have before returning to the bitchy girlfriend of Monday morning. As far as Saturday night goes: repeat Friday and sweet-talk the hell out of the sexy senorita at the end of the bar. Who knows? She may be that chic Victoria Secret model we’ve all been dreaming about.

Moving on to Sunday, the proverbial day of rest. In theory, Sunday is just as good as any other weekend day, although, with further inspection, one can easily see that this is simply not true. Time to lug out the briefcase and rehash the painful memories that are the Monday morning. Picture Sunday like being on a diving board in the midst of a belly flop competition. No matter how hard you try to enjoy yourself, the fact that this jump is going to hurt like hell is never very far from your mind. The threatening scorpion sting of Monday morning is just around the corner, and one has to be feeling the preliminary effects.

As you can very clearly see, the weeks manage to mirror the fixed regimentation of clockwork. Every cog is meticulously set in place to guarantee you a week of both excruciating pain, and wonderful joy.

On a side note: If, in fact, you happen to inhabit that liminal space in which your weeks manage to break out of this structure, and the above statements manage to ring untrue, I suggest you simultaneously sting yourself with a scorpion while having your bitchy girlfriend kick you in the balls, so you can feel what it’s like for all the rest of us normal people on a Monday morning.

Repeat, ad nauseam.

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