It’s just a Tuesday Monday
Why I hate Monday’s and Why I don’t make my own Coffee:
Monday’s are always my least favorite day of the week. Today is just a Tuesday Monday. It is a Tuesday, but naturally it feels like a Monday. Each Monday I wake up with dread. (Does dread feel like being beaten over the head with a baseball bat?) I throw on anything that resembles clothes, attempt to put contacts in my squinty eyes and head to my local friendly coffee shop. Its a sad but reassuring moment when all the coffee baristas know my name. Judge if you want, but mornings are not the best time for me to attempt to make my own hot beverage. For the record, I have tried before. I once set my coffee pot the night before. I remember waking to the beautiful aroma of coffee brewing in my kitchen. I quickly threw on clothes, shoved contacts into my crusty eyes and ran to the kitchen. I poured coffee into a seemingly friendly coffee cup. No sooner had the coffee been poured, than that double crossing mug jumped out of my hand and shattered onto my floor. Ten minutes later, covered in coffee stains and burns I took the walk of shame to order my tall blonde roast. I hope this short paragraph adequately explained why I hate Monday’s and why I do not make my own coffee.
Monday’s are always my least favorite day of the week. Today is just a Tuesday Monday. It is a Tuesday, but naturally it feels like a Monday. Each Monday I wake up with dread. (Does dread feel like being beaten over the head with a baseball bat?) I throw on anything that resembles clothes, attempt to put contacts in my squinty eyes and head to my local friendly coffee shop. Its a sad but reassuring moment when all the coffee baristas know my name. Judge if you want, but mornings are not the best time for me to attempt to make my own hot beverage. For the record, I have tried before. I once set my coffee pot the night before. I remember waking to the beautiful aroma of coffee brewing in my kitchen. I quickly threw on clothes, shoved contacts into my crusty eyes and ran to the kitchen. I poured coffee into a seemingly friendly coffee cup. No sooner had the coffee been poured, than that double crossing mug jumped out of my hand and shattered onto my floor. Ten minutes later, covered in coffee stains and burns I took the walk of shame to order my tall blonde roast. I hope this short paragraph adequately explained why I hate Monday’s and why I do not make my own coffee.
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