I hate Mondays. They are the absolute worst. I can only imagine Mondays being good if you’re like a hip hop mogul or obscenely rich. Like, you sleep in a bed of money. For example, “oh hey It’s Monday, I think I’ll take my jet out to Australia and dance with some kangaroos.” In that case, you have the right to say I love Mondays. Usually my day will start off with my alarm going off. I’ll jump up in terror thinking I’m late. I turn off the alarm. I wake up again. A dream within a dream. Once I’m up I sit at the edge of my bed, Indian style, with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders. Imagine someone in the dead of winter. It’s -30 degrees. They’re freezing to death and have 25 miles to walk in the hopes of finding someone or some resources. After walking for days, they find a camp that’s been deserted by Norwegian scientists because of a shape shifting alien like in The Thing. That’s what I picture myself as every morning. I always weigh my options. Should I call in sick? Should I call in dead? “Sorry I can’t make it in, I’m dead.” Once I’m up I take the first step out of my bed. My legs don’t work yet. I fall to the ground like a newborn fawn. My legs tap on the floor, but I haven’t learned to walk yet. I crawl to the door. The doorknob’s too high to reach. I rest for a second because the journey is just beginning. “Anybody! Someone! I could use a little help in here!”, I call out, but everyone is gone. Once my legs start working again I prepare myself for the day. I open the door and there are 3 dogs laying there that I have to crawl over. Each one pissed off that I woke them up. Skip ahead to me on the train. Standing because I gave up my seat for an old lady who looks like she’s 105 years old. Where she’s going, who the hell knows. I finally get to work. Exhausted. I pour myself some coffee and sit down at my desk. “Let the day begin” I say to myself. The alarm goes off. I wake up in bed again.