It’s that time of the week again: as “Sunday Night” eventually ends, with a flourish, on the telly. It’s what most would think about: the fact that Sunday was almost over, and that Monday will come, preceding four other miserable days at work, dealing through the ocean of paperwork that is your boss’s idea of “light work”. The worst part of that could be having to drag yourself, shaking, whimpering, out of the cosy homeliness of your bed, and literally belly-flopping over the bathroom sink, while toothpaste from that magical flying toothbrush (which somehow dislodges itself from your hand) manages to draw a line of fresh, green peppermint across your face. Monday may actually be too much to bear for most, especially those who do not like surprises, waking up, with a hell of a hangover after drinking galleons of brandy, and having played hopscotch with all the breakable and fragile wooden pencils the night before while in a dazed stupor. Thinking that it is Sunday, they naively tear off a page in their calendar, screaming, fainting and frothing at the mouth, ripping the calendar off the wall, and making holes in the wall at the sight of Monday. However, there are those people who likes Monday, cackling away at you, their eyes burning and their teeth shiny and incredibly sharp, so as to scare the general public. Having heard all their cheery, bubbly opinions on Monday, especially when they look bright, enthusiastic and happy while you’re on your twentieth cup of double espresso really makes you tempted to throw the cup of coffee at them, yelling hoarsely at them to shut up, while sobbing out of frustration, annoying your pet hamsters, and causing a small earthquake of 2.2 on the Richter Scale.


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