Not Your Average Case of the Mondays
I don’t really have sex, but Monday fucks me hard every single week. Unfortunately, it’s not the passionate kind of hard that you see in movies such as Braveheart, where a firm, unshaven freedom fighter unleashes his manhood on you. Nor is it the kind of hard that your inner animal craves and that rap music is about. No, Monday bangs you like the techno music-loving, cocaine-snorting, party-clothed motherfuckers at Club Opera. He doesn’t know your name and he has pubic hair on his chest. The only difference between that fuckbag and Monday is that Monday doesn’t finish in five to ten minutes – it fucks you all day long.
It might start with something you forgot that you had to have done for early Monday morning. So you stay up far too late on Sunday night finishing it and sleep through handing it in anyway. Then your shower usually breaks, so that you have to get down on all fours, ass naked, and spend forty-five minutes cupping your hands under the tub faucet and splashing yourself with water like a fucking caveman. And because the caveman splash is such an effective rinsing technique, you end up filmy and pissed off because you’re fucking cold. Right around now you drop something unnecessarily heavy on your foot, like a closet door. You might be thinking: stupid girl, closet doors don’t fall on feet. Well fuck yes they do if your landlord sends his cousin’s wife’s brother who just arrived from Romania yesterday to do building maintenance! When you ask him if he wouldn’t mind fixing some shit he smokes Colts on the balcony and undresses you with his eyes until you decide that having a precariously-attached closet door is better than being the star of the porno in his head.
So the door decides it has had enough of relying on only one hinge bolted to the doorframe and dislodges itself, blockading the entrance to your room. You are really in a rage at this point, and the impromptu nude closet door removal isn’t helping. One of your roommates and her boyfriend are ‘snuggling’ in the room next to yours and hear the thrashing and crashing, but they figure it must be the roommate across the hall falling out of her loft-bed. (Her boyfriend is visiting from out of town and performing in six-foot high single beds can be difficult). Basically, nobody comes to help; you suddenly realise that you are very, very alone, and - once you finally break into your room - discover that you also have no clean underwear.
Monday plays mind games with you for the rest of the afternoon: you have the most uncontrollable existential crisis since the first time you had a hangover. There is major inward reflection and self-doubt, and you decide that you’re a dirty slut and a fuck-up in general. You somehow make it through the day, reminding yourself that there is one good thing about Mondays: the 10% discount at Provigo for students! So you load up your cart and proceed to the register to miss the discount cut-off price by three dollars and fifty cents, and before you can throw a few chocolate bars at the girl behind the till (to eat later in your bed in the dark), the bitch swipes your credit card and closes the deal at full price.
Mondays have been ravaging humankind since the dawn of time: Edward III’s army fought a battle on a Monday in 1360 and got fucking annihilated by hailstorms, lightning, and panic. For the record, everyone died. Once, in a logical attempt to avoid Monday entirely, I cowered in bed until 9pm and left the house only briefly to get some delicious treats. Monday was not impressed that I gave it blue balls, called up Tuesday, and Tuesday railed me harder than Monday ever has, refused to cuddle afterwards, and put the video of it online.
By Humpday, I’m usually not in the mood.
- Katie Burrell
The Red Herring
vol. XIX no. 5
- Digg It!
- Posted on May 14th, 2008
- Articles, Katie Burrell
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