It's not exactly that it's Monday. But it doesn't help that my head keeps going to that Boomtown Rats song, "I Don't Like Mondays," which (song) I don't like. The chorus of, especially. "Shoot ooo-ooo-ooo, ooo, ooot the whole day down" (& following notes) is the worst part. Rubs me the wrong way. Banging on the piano and all.
Even one of my most keep-to-herself coworkers today expressed the idea that Monday can't be over soon enough. And that's the main thing about Mondays that can't be over soon enough for me.
I'm just not well for it.
Great---I hear the cleaning guy, who used to be friendly with me and then suddenly was all weird, one day & thenceforth ever after. Did I accidentally leave some particularly upsetting indicator of radical queerness at my desk? What could have suddenly tipped him off that I'm evil? Could it be simply that I missed the trash can with a banana peel and didn't catch it? Seems unlikely he also actually dislikes small talk, and somehow had suddenly had enough of it with me & snapped.
Whatever it is, it's cleaning guy's problem. Bite me, cleaning guy.
"Bite me" was what I said to Holly's (least favorite) sister when she asked us not to dance together in front of her new temporary "friends" on the cruise from hell. That felt good, I gotta tell ya, saying that to her. And how she never got in my face again. With limited opportunities therefor, I grant you, but it's true.
Alright I liked her that time she discovered my comb was a comb for doing French braids & proceeded to illustrate it on my head. That was a most unlikely bonding, that was. And I'm sure it was hard to be her. But she could bite me anyway, that time on that cruise.
I'd better get out of here before I decide the cleaning guy's not a jerk.