Monday’s zombies, so hooked on their weekends, are downright bummed to see us again, forced to endure our very existence. They’re everywhere, swarming around us, ready to spit their despair in our faces, merely for being their unchosen comrades. Trapped in a devilish cycle, they battle for five endless days just to relish two pitiful days of some prescribed, scheduled bliss.
As every morning, I swagger into the office to the raucous applause of the administrative drones in the open space.
“Hey team, what’s the vibe? Everything on fire?”
For once, someone actually responds.
“Oh, you know, just another Monday.”
Who the hell said that?
I slowly sweep the room with my eyes and lock onto Elodie, who’s staring into the abyss.
She’s nursing her tea from that godforsaken mug with a picture of her flea-ridden mutt on it.
“What do you mean? What’s this ‘just another Monday’ garbage?”
“The weekend is always too short!”
This smirking buffoon is trying to pull a Manic Monday on me? Seriously?
“You spend the weekend with that hillbilly in flip-flops and those hideous kids on your desktop wallpaper?”
“Uh, yes. That’s my family. I…”
“So, I really can’t fathom how your damn weekend could be any more thrilling than your week here with me, even if you only endure my presence for twenty minutes a day.”
I don’t get it. Every week, it’s the same circus. The insufferable melodrama of “Monday blues.” People shuffle into work like they’re marching to the guillotine, lamenting the end of their pitiful weekend.
Of course, it’s the same loafers who can’t wait to extol the virtues of Friday night, as if the only life worth living occurs between Saturday and Sunday.
I can’t help but wonder what they’re doing that’s so extraordinary over the weekend that makes their existence here so torturous during the week. What kind of insatiable hedonists are they cavorting with?
Gone are the enthusiastic lies they shamelessly regurgitated during the job interview. Oh, they were ready to sell their souls for this job they now despise. Where were these complaints when they were groveling to be hired, willing to prostrate themselves before the entire management team for a spot in the Company?
These parasites should admit they’re living the dream considering what they rake in compared to their paltry skill set and, above all, their efforts. They’ve hit the jackpot, and they know it. Unless they screw up monumentally enough to cause a catastrophe costing multiple human lives, they’re set to leech off their families till the end of days.
And yet, here they are, still giving us grief, acting like they’re bestowing a favor upon the world by dragging their sorry carcasses into the office.
“Why are you so cruel to me, Mr. Reznyk?”
“But on the contrary, Elodie, I’m a saint! I’m trying to rescue you.”
“I’m not Elodie. I’m Corinne. Elodie passed away six months ago. I replaced her…”
“Exactly, Gizmo, or whoever you are. Life’s too short. If you can’t stomach your job, find something that lights your fire, something that makes every day feel like a Sunday. Don’t waste five out of seven days pining for your pathetic weekend like a moron!”
“What did I do to you? Why are you berating me like this?”
“I have nothing personal against you, Elodie. I’m calling out all the professional complainers.”
Yet none of the vermin in the vast office seemed to give a damn. Everyone feigned being engrossed in a task they clearly couldn’t give two hoots about.
“I’ve got news for you slackers! The next one who hits me with that pitiful ‘just another Monday’ line, I’ll personally show them the door. Vacate your spot for someone who’ll value this job or at least fake it better than you. The world owes you squat, and neither does the Agency.”
Sitting across from Corinne, young Mouloud rises, removing his oversized hipster-branded headphones.
“Oh, hi Paul!”
Apparently, this young imbecile just realized I’m here.
“Who wants coffee?”
“No Thanks Mouloud.”
“Ugh, it’s going to be a long week! Cant’t wait for Friday!”