Oh man, its only 1220am and I can barely open my eyes. The weariness is still very much felt, clouding my whole body system even after hours of afternoon siesta. Not gonna blame on the age factor, because I am still young and gorgeous but I believe its more like a wake-up call that I should go slow on my weekend’s routine-breaking shindigs.
Suffice to say my past weekends have not been short of activities. Invitations kept pouring in- dinners, reunions, lesbian orgies, bloggers get-togayther- and this round of weekend was no exception.
Time flies by when you’re having a good time but when you had a blast, you wish you could party on as if there’s no tomorrow.
Now that we’re well into the dreading start of the week, all the fun comes to a halt.
Its back to a dull, routine motion. Pressure starts mounting to get your job done and Friday seems like a century away.
Then we begin to moan, grumble and whinge on about everything that deems suck to one’s preference- Just because it’s a bloody Monday.
There in the ward meanwhile, we have someone dearly battling a dreadful Monday that will inevitably harm her body in some ways or another and here we moan for the workload which will in due course produces an income.
I mean, doesn’t sound right, does it?
It was only a couple of years ago when I gave a pal -with a respectable career, a salary comparable to a corrupted minister- some good piece of mind. He can go ahead and lust for all the good shit the world can offer but not swapping places with a quad like me so he could sleep through out the day and night.
No man, you wouldn't want that. A single ‘Amin’ to that and God could very well grant his wish and crippled his limbs at one stroke. And trust me, its not a pretty thing to be yearning for.
Now however, I’m guilty of that and a good reminder should snap me off from ultimately swallowing on my own words. Actually I’m culpable of everything under the sun, so its not a real surprise that I’m guilty of bitching mad at poor old Mondays.
Ungrateful bastards most of us are.