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A wise man once said “Why do now what I could do on Monday?”
That man was you, on Friday, at 10 a.m. Friday was great. It could’ve been awful, but you made it great. You put in some good effort at the workplace this week, and you earned yourself a casual Friday. Those applications you needed to finish? Technically no deadline, so they can wait. Those people you needed to call? Eh, no reason to bother them on a Friday, better just let it wait until Monday. Your boss is on vacation, and you’re about ready to call it a week at 3:00. This doesn’t make you a bad employee. You’ve earned this, and everyone does it. Every now and then you deserve to treat yourself to a day where you give a Peter-Gibbons-knocking-his-cubicle-down level of fucks.
This lazy Friday likely gave you some momentum to crush your weekend. One of your buddies got an unexpected bonus and picked up your Friday night bar tab, and no one saw you puke in the parking lot. You made it through 18 and only threw one club, and that night some girl told you that you look like “a drunk version of Ryan Gosling,” which was a much needed morale boost after being called “a young George Costanza” the previous weekend. On Sunday, you dominated brunch and thoroughly took part in #MargLife. By 7 p.m., you settled into your favorite chair, ready to put a cap on this weekend by watching the HBO summer lineup, beyond pleased with yourself. But in the back of your mind, terror is starting to creep in.
SEVEN HOURS LATER
How did you let it come to this? Staring at your ceiling, thinking of all the missed opportunities, and what you could’ve done differently, you ponder what you know is coming. The Monday from hell. You could’ve done some of that work on Friday, and you had the time. I mean, fuck, you played Oregon Trail for an hour and a half. You can only die of dysentery so many times before you should give up and get back to work. But you didn’t, and now you’re paying for it.
You’re staring at the day that every member of the workforce dreads. You’ve set yourself up for a day where you actually have to work your ass off from the moment you clock in to an hour after you were supposed to clock out. Why — why couldn’t you have finished a report or two instead of trying out seventeen different Pandora stations? Or maybe made some phone calls instead of taking an hour-and-a-half lunch? How the fuck do you spend an hour and a half in Whataburger, you useless asshole? Look what you’ve done to yourself.
You could’ve worked from home, maybe one less marg, one more finished application, and you know damn well you had the time. While you need to sleep and rest up for the full day of work ahead of you, your mind is in a racing panic trying to figure out how you’re going to attack the Everest-sized mountain of mundane tasks awaiting you when you clock in. It gets so bad that you actually set your alarm for earlier, so you can get into the office a little earlier. Once you finally get to sleep, you’re haunted by dreams of your boss and Bill Lumbergh throwing staplers at you and asking why you don’t have those TPS reports ready.
So, Monday Margs?.
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