GARFIELD
9.4.20 | A.M
Monday. Poor, martyr Monday. She’ll have to fire two employees first thing in the morning. She hates her job, but who’s going take care of Mom? She’s got the charisma of a half finished cold cup of coffee. I guess that’s what endless to-do lists will do to you. That spring in her step? I don’t buy it. She probably stole Saturday’s cocaine. She’s trying her best.
Fuck Tuesday. If Monday is a well, then Tuesday is some child’s aimless rock. One more thing thrown at the bottom of nothing “just to see what sound it makes.” Tuesday is thunk! It is also plop! splat! bump! clank! thud! slosh!, and on a good day, buzz.
Wednesday smells like the warmth of intimacy. No, not sex. Intimacy.
Thursday, likes to live in the forbidden things. The only history taught on Thursdays is the one never written. Thursday’s righteous. He carries within him the superiority complex of one who’s been experimented upon, and come out alive. Thursday is rock-paper-siccors and always taking your turn too soon.
Piece of unsolicited advice? Stay on Friday’s good side. I’m not saying she’s bad or anything, her bilingual experience is unique, that’s all. Her and Monday carry the weight of the week (Friday, more than Monday really, but we don’t point that out) on their back. The difference being; Friday’s mini-van shoulders will never pass up a dance.
Saturday picked up Friday’s make up from behind the bar’s dumpster, she nursed it back to health with breakfast and a few mirror-facing orgasms. She ran away from military school and has been hitchhiking her way to freedom ever since.
Sunday lives just off of Premature Rd, up there by Melancholy Hill. I’m sure you know the one.
She knows exactly who she is, but unlike Saturdays almost boastful overcompensation– Sunday pours herself in her mug just right. Not a drop spilled. She’s the sweetness of breakfast for dinner, the type that tries to role-play morning with the moon. She doesn’t ask too many questions, she doesn’t need to. Her eyes are the color of loosing all the things we love, but getting to love them anyway, and being all the better for it.
If she wanted to, Sunday could carry the martyr of Monday and the petulance of Tuesday. She already embodies the tenderness of Wednesday and rebellion of Thursday, albeit with more subtlety and grace. Sunday’s duality rivals Friday, and despite just as free as Saturday, Sunday decides not to act on that chaotic immediacy. Instead, Sunday meal preps for the rest of week and laughs out-loud when she finds a funny shaped potato. Sunday lives alone.