*collapse*
It's been a long, long day.
Have a story-thing.
Tuesday Gray
Tuesday’s the worst day of the week. Nah, not Monday - Tuesday. At least on Monday you can feel the start of something new, a clean slate for the next few days. But Tuesday? That’s another story.
Tuesday is sneaky. It slinks up on you unawares and pounces on you when you stumble out of bed, having slept through your alarm. And so begins a day of small, assorted woes.
This day is the sort of vague disappointment you get when you look in the fridge and all that’s left is three-day-old pizza. If it had a color, it would be gray. Not grey, the color of clouds, clear eyes and racing dogs; but flat, bland, calculator gray. Tuesdays are as unromantic as it gets.
On Tuesdays, people shuffle robotically through their daily routines, mourning the fact that there are still four more days to go until the weekend. Merciful teachers who spare students from Monday tests choose the second day of the week to spring the exams on them. Traffic lights take longer to change, hairstyles misbehave, and the coffee’s nearly always stale on Tuesdays.
The best part of this day is the end. After finishing your seemingly massive pile of homework and chores, practicing the same irritating piano piece you’ve been working on for a month, and finding no new emails in your inbox, you fall into bed, breathing a sigh of relief. At least tomorrow, Wednesday, will be a little better.
But you know the worst bit?
Every seven days, another Tuesday rears its ugly head. Again.
And now the Erika will shuffle off to bed.
Have a story-thing.
Tuesday Gray
Tuesday’s the worst day of the week. Nah, not Monday - Tuesday. At least on Monday you can feel the start of something new, a clean slate for the next few days. But Tuesday? That’s another story.
Tuesday is sneaky. It slinks up on you unawares and pounces on you when you stumble out of bed, having slept through your alarm. And so begins a day of small, assorted woes.
This day is the sort of vague disappointment you get when you look in the fridge and all that’s left is three-day-old pizza. If it had a color, it would be gray. Not grey, the color of clouds, clear eyes and racing dogs; but flat, bland, calculator gray. Tuesdays are as unromantic as it gets.
On Tuesdays, people shuffle robotically through their daily routines, mourning the fact that there are still four more days to go until the weekend. Merciful teachers who spare students from Monday tests choose the second day of the week to spring the exams on them. Traffic lights take longer to change, hairstyles misbehave, and the coffee’s nearly always stale on Tuesdays.
The best part of this day is the end. After finishing your seemingly massive pile of homework and chores, practicing the same irritating piano piece you’ve been working on for a month, and finding no new emails in your inbox, you fall into bed, breathing a sigh of relief. At least tomorrow, Wednesday, will be a little better.
But you know the worst bit?
Every seven days, another Tuesday rears its ugly head. Again.
And now the Erika will shuffle off to bed.