As the tears streak down my cheeks on this pretty regular Monday morning I'm still a bit in awe about how consistently average starting a new week can be, even if I'm excited to welcome it into my life. I have a hypothesis though: It's not Monday you hate, it's the actually the weekend.
You see, people always hark on about how average lunes is -- that's Spanish for Monday -- and as I said before, that can even be true if you're spread eagle with peanut butter lathered on your genitals at a dog park, and the dogs are the incoming week. It all points to a common denominator here, and that's the weekend. It's something we're taught to yearn for. Our culture has us believing that we're striving for those penultimate two days and three nights of debauchery or relaxation, and it's actually just screwing with our week.
I for one will not be participating in the weekend when it comes around next, and I highly advise taking a stand against it too.
