You suck. I tried to think of a kinder, gentler way of breaking this to you, but, really, what’s the point? You have single-handedly made this week a living pit of suckage and doom, and I don’t feel like sugar coating things to salvage your delicate sensibilities.
It was bad enough that your cohort, Monday, brought a blown-out tire. Yes, this was an unexpected and unpleasant surprise, but I could have dealt with it. “Oh, that’s Monday,” I told myself, “That’s just how Monday is. Tuesday will be better.”
Oh, how wrong I was, Tuesday. First, you forced me to waste away four hours of my life sitting around the tire shop, waiting for the repairs to my car. Let me repeat that, Tuesday, just in case you glossed over it: FOUR HOURS. This is practically an eternity, particularly when spent in a frigid room that would give the Arctic a run for its money. This is time I can never get back, Tuesday. You stole that from me. The one, shining bit of niceness in the entire situation was the fact that I was alone in the waiting room, and it was blessedly quiet and peaceful — until one of the shop’s employees came in to let me know I could turn on the TV, if I wanted. She proceeded to grab the remote and flip channels, staring blankly at me when I told her I preferred the quiet. Then she stopped at some inane game show, gave me a triumphant smile, and said, “There! That’s better, right?” before exiting the room. I know you sent her, Tuesday.
Just like I know you sent the manager who came after her, at the end of my four-hour ordeal. Believing I would be worn down from the wait, he then tried to con me into buying four new tires when all I needed was one. But I didn’t fall for it, Tuesday. I might have boobs, but that doesn’t mean I can’t tell when someone’s trying to cheat me. And so, I went on my way, thinking I had triumphed over you and your minions.
Ah, but you weren’t done with me yet, were you, Tuesday? Because you left me only enough time to race over to a favorite restaurant, take food to go, and gobble it in the car during the fifteen minutes of “down time” I had before picking my daughter up from school this afternoon. And then … once we got home, it turned out she had forgotten her math homework. So, we all got back into the car and headed back to school in order to retrieve it. I know you were laughing about it the entire time, Tuesday. Not cool.
Even so, I might have been able to overlook your snide attitude and catty amusement if we had been able to find my daughter’s math homework. But no … You denied me even this, Tuesday. The paper was nowhere to be found, leading to a frantic search of every bit of paper stuffed into my daughter’s overflowing backpack once we got home. And could you let us win, Tuesday? No, of course not.
And, even then, you hadn’t run out of tricks. Because this evening brought a stopped-up toilet — thanks so much for that, by the way, Tuesday. How very thoughtful of you. And an overly excited Springer Spaniel who jumped up and accidentally nipped my boob. That hurt, Tuesday. Don’t think I’ll be forgiving you for that one any time soon. I finally decided I had had enough of you. I figured a nice, hot shower would be enough to wash your stink off of me for good, but you had other plans, Tuesday. Because I managed to pop a blood vessel in my finger while opening my shampoo.
My shampoo, Tuesday. Seriously — how could you stoop so low? Is nothing sacred? It’s like you’re tossing flowers on my grave before my body is even cold.
And so, Tuesday, I regret to inform you that we must part ways. I bid you good luck and I hope you won’t let the door hit you on your way out. If you decide to come back around next week, I expect better from you, Tuesday. I know where you live.