Missing the weekend like.
There are 3.5 more days of work before vacation, but you might as well just go ahead and change the phrase “3.5 more days” to “3,598 more years.”
Until then, can I just stay in bed?
I don’t understand how so many days can truly exist between Monday morning and Friday at 4:30. It’s like each minute between Thursday afternoon and Friday has its own darn federal holiday.
Josef Danhauser went ahead and named this work The Novel Reading. Cute, right?
Well, what he doesn’t know is, my ideas are
usually frequently better than everyone else’s.
Might I suggest the title to read, Woman Realizing Monday’s Impending Doom. Even the Farnese Hercules in the background knows it’s a better title.
Girlfriend found out you can’t just jump to Tuesday.
Two words: WHY. NOT.
No use in even setting the table, Madame Vuillard. It’s Sunday night, and you know what that means…tomorrow’s Monday. Goddamn Monday.
Ughhhhh, Monday. Spoiler: this groan’s been a real thing since like, 3:30 Sunday afternoon.
There’s a lot out there about dressing in one’s Sunday finest, but can we bring back Monday finest? Something that includes voluminous updos. And ruffles. Lots and lots of ruffles.
Queen Charlotte was married to King George III (like, Boston Tea Party antagonist King George). Turns out, she was also pen pals with Marie Antoinette. She even planned for the French royal family to hide out in Britain during the Revolution…you know, before the whole “off with her head” thing.