Monday

Monday,

You were mean to me today. You made me so sleepy, it was all I could do to stumble clumsily out of the warm embrace of the bed. I should have caught on to your shenanigans and forced myself awake, and not burned my finger on the curling iron. But didn’t, and I did. And it hurt. Even after I ran my finger under the cold water. And I choose to blame you. Then, it was raining. Because of course. You have to have everything, don’t you.

I can’t believe you tricked me into wearing the pink and orange bra under the green and white dress, thus forcing me to wear the left-at-work maroon faux-leather jacket after one very rude awakening in the bathroom.

You made one of my non-burned fingers hurt somehow by typing on the overly aggressive keyboard. I don’t know how, but you did. Those keys were way pokier than normal today. My right hand next-to-the-pinkie finger still hurts.

You even managed to lure me to Walmart under the guise of “just a few things!” Nope. Not me. I will never make it out of that fluorescent-lit rabbit hole with “just a few things.” I’m strong, but not that strong. Cotton balls, a resistance band for the workouts I’m not going to do, tall decorative flowers for looksies, rotisserie chicken and salad fixins. To name a few.

Let’s go back to that working out thing. Just when I’d gotten my nerve up to even think about taking on the crazed, P90X maniacs – even made a special trip to Walmart specifically to get the stupid resistance band – you brainwash me with an overwhelming urge to lie on the couch in those grimy, I’ve-let-myself-go sweatpants from sophomore year. If Andy doesn’t want me anymore, I’ll know exactly who to blame.

Yeah, you made me feel like crap.

Oh, and you made me cut my nail off with my razor when I was shaving lazily in the shower this morning. Why you gotta be like that?

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