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Ah, Mondays, the day everyone loves to hate. It’s the Beyonce of the workweek—always stealing the spotlight, even when nobody asked for it. Let’s talk about how Mondays are like that uninvited guest at the party who shows up with their Bluetooth speaker blasting Nickelback and a tray of off-brand hummus. You’re not sure why they’re there, but you’re too polite to kick them out.

First of all, let’s address the tragic comedy that is the Monday morning alarm. Oh, the audacity of it. It’s like your alarm clock is auditioning for an Oscar in “Best Performance by a Buzzkill.” You hit snooze so many times that your phone starts questioning its life choices. “Is this my purpose? To be smacked around by a groggy human who still thinks they’re living their best life in the weekend?”

And then there’s the coffee situation. Why is it that on Mondays, your coffee never quite hits the spot? It’s like your barista woke up and said, “Today, I’m going to make a latte that tastes like regret and lukewarm tears.” Even your coffee machine at home betrays you. It sputters and groans like a car trying to start in a horror movie. Meanwhile, your cat watches you from the corner, judging your dependence on a beverage to function. The cat doesn’t need caffeine to be an agent of chaos, and honestly, that’s inspirational.

Let’s not forget the commute. Oh, the commute! It’s as if every driver on the road decided to embrace their inner toddler. “What’s this? A yellow light? Floor it!” You sit in traffic listening to a podcast about mindfulness, but the irony is so thick you could spread it on toast. And then there’s always that one guy who thinks his car horn is a magic wand that will make the world move faster. Newsflash, buddy: It’s not the horn; it’s your personality that’s making people avoid you.

Work itself? A masterpiece of absurdity. Your inbox is like a game of Tetris, but instead of colorful blocks, it’s full of emails marked “URGENT” that were sent by someone who clearly doesn’t understand the meaning of the word. Karen from accounting wants to “circle back” on something you didn’t even know was a circle to begin with. Meanwhile, your boss schedules a 9 a.m. meeting to “touch base,” which is corporate code for “talk in circles until everyone is too confused to ask questions.”

By lunchtime, you’re debating the pros and cons of faking your own death. Pros: no more Mondays. Cons: you’d probably mess up the paperwork and end up with a new Monday in Witness Protection. You eat your sad desk salad, which somehow tastes more like office supplies than vegetables, and scroll through Instagram. There’s always that one friend who posts, “Rise and grind! Mondays are for hustlers!” You briefly consider blocking them, but that would require more energy than you currently possess.

As the day drags on, you start fantasizing about the little things that could go wrong and force you to leave early. Fire drill? Burst pipe? Spontaneous combustion? Anything sounds better than sitting through the 4 p.m. status update meeting, where Bob from IT spends 15 minutes explaining why the printer isn’t working. Spoiler alert: It’s still not working.

Finally, the clock hits 5 p.m. You survived. Barely. You stumble home, throw on sweatpants, and collapse onto the couch like you just finished running a marathon—except the only thing you ran was out of patience. You’re too tired to even hate-watch reality TV, so you just stare at the ceiling and think, “Only four more days until Friday.”

So here’s to you, Monday. You’re the pothole in the road of life, the cilantro in the guacamole, the unsolicited group text of the calendar week. We don’t like you, but we tolerate you because, unfortunately, you’re part of the package. Just know that when Friday rolls around, nobody is reminiscing about you. Cheers.