The Weight Of My Soul Versus A Ham Sandwich

I had a grand weekend. A victorious weekend, even. Creatively satisfying, with the raucous debut of my rebranding resurrection. Practical victories a’ coming. A moon as big as a balance ball shows me the way. A temperature that flirts with 50 this week.

This past 72 hours I have soared with eagles and swam with dolphins (metaphorically. I don’t trust dolphins).

So why do I feel like a Halloween bag that has had it’s candy removed and replaced with rancid turkey bones?

Why do I feel like the bottom of a crusty soup tureen that ignored good advice and moved to a city to fast for soup and ending up being served to the homeless?

Why do I feel like a ham sandwich served without condiments, wrapped only in a slowly sopping roll?

You know why. As do I. Welcome to Monday.

It’s a cliché, of course. It’s the punchline to a billion 3 panel comics. It’s the least exciting beginning to anything.

Despite what happens in our two days away, Monday always waits. Its the reset button that brings everything back down to earth with the subtlety of Skylab crashing.

But why? The logic doesn’t work. Any day of the year can be viewed as simply a day. Your birthday is just a day. Your mom’s birthday too.

I wake up on Monday and feel all the paranoia, all the pessimism, all the grisly bits that life brings with it. I can’t fight it and my best defense is to keep repeating ‘It’s only a Monday…It’s only a Monday….’

Alas, no luck in logic, no hope in hope. Just ride it out and await Tuesday.

Advice for the day: Keep your head low. Expectations are reined in. Keep repeating the words.

Best case scenario: when the aliens come, they come on a Friday, enslave us on Saturday and blot out our memories on a Sunday. And Monday at that point becomes day one.


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