Some things in life serve only to induce rage. No matter how small these annoyances may be, they are never insignificant. 'Rant List' is the chronicle of one self-loathing narcissist's seemingly unending pettiness.

Monday, 29 November 2010

35. Mondays

^ I feel like I live somewhere in-between Office Space and Clerks

It's Sunday morning. You wake up, realising you don't have any job / education commitments for the day and lazily lay your head back down before it truly hits you. It's Sunday. This is your last day of weekend-based freedom before the weekday slog kicks in and begins the gradual process of chipping away what few fragments remain of your disillusioned soul. So, really, you better make the best of it.

It's Sunday afternoon. You're awake again. You have wasted your entire morning in bed and achieved none of the things you intended to by this point. And that's okay, because it's Sunday. You lazily make a fry-up to eat the pain away. Delicious. It dawns on you again though, that tomorrow is Monday. Better make the best of your free time.

It's 5pm. You've spent the day thus far playing Robot Unicorn Attack and re-watching episodes of the unrelenting mediocrity that is How I Met Your Mother. You think about dinner and pittle away your time by tapping away on the internet. Ooh, 2 notifications, how grand!

Somehow, it's Monday morning. You're up at the crack of dawn, you've had about five broken hours of sleep and the slog begins. You feel your jaw crack as you hear that unceremoniously violent alarm shatter your ears. You remember you spent last night illegally watching Piranha 3D (in 2D) and drinking. The morning is brutal. It's dark outside. Your eyes are crusted over with sleep and your vision doesn't want to kick in. Your legs are useless. You fall over your bag and spill that glass of water you keep by the bed. Ooh, crumbs. After making a coffee, you decide to turn on your laptop. Leslie Nielsen's dead. A significant part of your childhood dies with him.

You eventually muster the courage to leave the house. It is as cold as Hell would be if O.J. Simpson was actually innocent. You're wearing at least four layers and yet your nipples could cut glass - double-glazed glass, at that. Your nipples are too powerful for this time of morning.

You're at the bus stop. You notice there's an awful lot of people waiting for the bus. Oh, it's a Tube strike. Of course. You have to wait for a couple of buses. When you finally get on a bus, you are sandwiched between two unsavoury characters with an odour so offensive, it's like the smell took your nostrils outside and beat them up with a lead pipe stolen from a sewage plant.

You realise this is all before you have even reached your institution of choice for the day. You have an entire day of this tripe to put up with.

No other day assaults every one of your senses so aggressively in the space of the first hour of being awake. You become fully aware of the entire gravitas of the situation. You have a terrible case of the Mondays.

You write on your to-do list "buy wine and cookies before heading home".

You wait as five buses pass. You lose the ability to write coherent sentences. Banana hammock. You start writing entries for your inane blog.

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