There’s nothing quite like a Monday.

I get up a little early to dodge the worst of the traffic at the gate. It’s not as bad these days though, not since they opened the second one. I feel a bit more official on Mondays, mostly on account of the outfit—more, “I work in an office,” and less, “I’m going to survive, evade, resist, and escape.”

The regimen of the place is familiar, if not soothing, after the chaos of the weekend. The greetings are formal. The weekend update will involve a train wreck or two and some politics. My oatmeal will be on some extreme of the runny/lumpy spectrum. We all get to giggle at the one person who wore the wrong clothes, unless it happens to be me.

Each Monday I plop down at my desk and envision the day, the week, the next moth. I picture all the people with whom I’m going to interaction and mutter under my breath, “Fuck you. And fuck you. And fuck you. And fuck you too, most of all.”

My buddy thinks I’m burned out. I couldn’t care less.