I Don’t Like Mondays

No, I really, really don’t. Which is odd because I trudge to work on Sundays, but I’m mercifully on my own and not at the clutches of a frozen smile and a ready-to-serve attitude, decked to the nines and with The Man’s arm elbow-deep up my ass without lube or even a warning.

But Mondays are the worst. They’re the day God made to make Man groan in his comfy bed, twist and turn as the alarm strikes “GET YOUR ASS OUT OF BED AND DON’T HIT SNOOZE!”; they’re the reason I sometimes look at the ceiling, my right hand still semi clutching my manlies, and think “oh maybe I can rub one out and ease the shock”.

Mondays are the reason I rolled out of my bed, ate Chinese-red carpet (yum, synthetic fiber with my own flakes of skin, so tasty!), crawled into the bathroom, saw the horrorshow that was my face, and proceeded to painfully primp up, all the time longingly looking at the sky for a sign—anything—of a snow day. Frantic, I grabbed the iPhone and tapped. No, there was no message on my answering machine at work from the broadcast system. No, not a drop of snow. Meanwhile, folks down South were comfortably snoozing away, possibly entertaining of a day filled with sloth.

More at: Queer IV – The ramblings and misadventures of a faggot lost in the Big Apple of the dubious name of Barry Cadshaw.