Another Monday destroyed by the stresses of a weekend past. All this time I thought Monday’s were evil. I misplaced my anger and loathing. It’s not Mondays I hate so completely; it is the unfulfilled promises of the weekend that makes Monday such a chore.

If the weekend stood up to all the great ideals I have for it Monday would be just another day that goes by, another opportunity to commune with work mates and put effort into the career path I’ve chosen. The weekend never lives up to its potential. It always leaves me bare.

I start on Wednesday thinking of all the things I’m going to do in that glorious upcoming weekend. Maybe I’ll reorganize that closet I’ve been meaning to get to. Or I’ll finally finish reading that book that had me so wrapped up last week. Better yet, I could go to the park with my dog and let her run wild the way she wants to. She’ll love me for weeks after that.

Then the weekend comes and there’s a million possibilities and little time. My brain becomes overloaded. A few necessary things pop up that eat up more time than should be allowed. I get frustrated and aggravated.

Sunday afternoon comes and I’ve done nothing to whittle down the list of fun things to do. Monday looms like a hungry dragon ready to devour all of my time and hope. I give in, forget it, I chide myself. So I plop myself in front of the TV and let it lull me into oblivion.

Another weekend wasted and another Monday abhorred.  When will the cycle end? When will Monday get the credit it deserves? Sorry dear Monday, I will learn to love you before the end.

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