Monday? How Many Ways Do I hate You?

Oh Monday? What can I say? I hate you. It is fairly simple.

No lotto win on Saturday night, otherwise, I would surely not be here, now.

Oh Monday? The worst day of the week, unless, of course, there is a public holiday, then we love Monday so. How fickle we are.

But no such luck, Chico, no holiday today, just the usual regret that I wasn't born a trust fund kid, otherwise, I'd be doing the world party circuit like my old friend Ed. Travelling country to country, continent to continent. One day he is in the Mediterranean, the next day he is in the Caribbean. Art galleries in New York. Fashion shows in Paris. Dinner in London. How lucky Ed is. Lovely Ed. Handsome, carefree, Ed. Trust fund kid, Ed. What a life he led, not a fucking stress with anything in his life. 

Ed won the lotto of life at birth, with his wealthy South African industrialist father.

I used to sit on the beach in Mykonos with him and we’d chat, and he’d laugh, and I’d laugh, he was always smiling, of course. We’d sit until the gorgeous sun set in the west on our days in that golden, nutmeggy hue that it used to.

Ed never had Monday regret in his life, not for one day, never. He wouldn’t know what I-don’t-like-Mondays was all about.

Lucky Ed.

And here I am sitting here on a Monday, with Mondayitis wondering what lovely Ed is doing today?