Monday

There's nothing quite like sleeping for crap, and "waking up" angry with the world –– every living, breathing thing deserving of wrath. (The non-living, non-breathing things, too, come to think of it.) Waking up full of pure, essentially directionless, purposeless, anger – hate – even. Goddamn, that's good stuff.

Especially when it's one's own fault, more or less. Booze leads to horrifically altered sleep schedule leads to missed doses of the happy pills leads to significantly altered proportions of neurotransmitters in the brain soup creates jilted feedback and feed-forward neuronal loops and further fucked-up sleeping and suddenly every side of the bed is the wrong side and God fucking DAMMIT it's Monday again.

So, of course, because it's Monday again, and every side of the bed is the wrong side –– there is no more shampoo so I have to use the super-manly body-wash on my precious precious curls (What's that? You want me to just GIVE you my old cell phone? Because you lost yours AGAIN AND YOU USE UP ALL OF MY SHAMPOO AND DON'T REPLACE IT??? Think again, buddy, my crappy little phone just got a lot more expensive, you little fuckwit); the cat has shat all over the place, except for in the litter box; everything wrong with the way IT is run is making itself crystal clear to me all at once, and only one of my three bosses is going to be at all sympathetic (and that's probably because he is always sympathetic, full stop, always making peace).

It either tastes like napalm or bureaucracy. I'm not sure which, and the tastes may be blending. And it's all my fault. Or yours. Depending.