I fucking hate you.
I hate that you force me to get out of bed at an ungodly hour of the morning and fight my way through a sea of idiot drivers and into the depths of hell (which I lovingly refer to as “work”).
I hate that you put everyone in the office in a bad mood and that you show no remorse or compassion. (Just so you know, you could spike diet coke with rum every once in a while to take the edge off, you asshole.)
Every time I see you, you are taunting me with lovely things which remain just out of my reach (which Saturday or Sunday would have gladly shared) like sunlight or a refreshing breeze. But no, you want me to suffer. You want me to stay inside. Suffering. Pulling out my hair. You love it, don’t you, Monday.
I hate that you make me hate you, Monday. You should be the start of a new week. A week where anything can happen. A week full of hope and promise.
Instead you just make me want to drink gasoline.