The obvious excuse is that it’s Monday. There’s a good chance you’re still recovering from the weekend, and that’s not to say that you got so totally wasted for the past 2.5 days; we all know that not everyone spends their weekends drinking, right? Some people spend their weekends doing coke, or like, heroin… I know you think that’s rare, because no one likes to talk about how they spent their Saturday afternoon mainlining, but it’s not as rare as you think, probably. Anyway, some people don’t get smashed on the weekend at all; some people do laundry or travel or they’re just sober by choice — good ones, those people — but when they come in to work on Monday and have to hear about your drunk, junkie, can’t-work-cuz-I’m-too-hungover escapades it’s probably a bit frustrating. You know, it’s not like they come into the office screaming about how they discovered a totally rad walking path at Central Park, yelling at a volume typically resolved for a professional sporting event; how are they supposed to concentrate while you recount the fascinating experience of puking out of a moving cab? How are they supposed to get anything done today? Yeah, no one is getting anything done today.
Not to mention the weather outside — look at it, being all weather-y. How can anyone be expected to respond to an email when it looks like the sky was painted with the literal tears of Jesus? It looks so sad outside that I’m almost certain outside’s grandmother just died. His favorite grandmother. Outside, are you okay? Are you going to get through this?
What’s that, you say? It’s sunny where you live? Well how in the heck can you work when it’s sunny out? You should be basking in the Indian Summer. Is that racist? The whole Indian Summer thing, I’m not clear on it. The stepmother in Fear used that phrase once and it looked like a pretty nice day she was referring to so I figured that, if anything, the term Indian Summer was complimentary but now… now that the internet has spent umpteenth hours teaching us all what is and isn’t alright to say, think, or feel… I’m not convinced. Native American Summer? How about Real-American summer, why not that? Who are the real Americans, after all? I’d be interested in Mitt Romney weighing in on this pressing matter. How can we get any work done today when we a) don’t know Romney’s stance on ‘Indian Summer’ and b) God, via weather, is conspiring against us? God, if you haven’t heard of him, is a supernatural being whose name can be used not just in vain, but in pretty much any context like — “Oh my freaking God,” and “GOD, MOM, I WARNED YOU ABOUT GOING THROUGH MY THINGS,” and “God, your son Jesus is actually crying so hard — who knows about what? — that he’s making it impossible to get any work done. He feels bleak and as a result, so do I. I feel bleak. Why don’t you do something about that, almighty powerful being? Do we need to send CPS up there?”
And then, after a 48 hour break from spending every waking moment online, isn’t catching up with the incestuous, circle-jerky, horrific happenings on the internet going to take precedence over, I don’t know, sitting at a desk all tippy-tapping with your plastic keyboard? What kind of learning experience is that? You’re just going to enter predetermined letters until they form predetermined words because the people who sign your paychecks — which allow you to pay for things like food and shelter — said to? What are you, a fucking sheep? And anyway, what kind of employer wants to pay some hypnotized tippy-tappy drone when they could instead have a well-educated, internet savvy, pointless-information-savant at their beck? Exactly. They want the person who took the time to read the 2,000 word article about a woman who can’t decide whether to breastfeed or go artificial because her grandmother’s left nipple seemed to be marginally smaller than the right nipple, post-breastfeeding. They want you.
Wait, it’s Columbus Day? You should definitely not be working, no way. Working on Columbus Day is more un-American than giving ‘Native’ Americans ownership over their own country. And god knows we can’t do that. (See, god? I did it again. You are truly everywhere.)
Well, have fun with your ‘Indian Summer,’ shitheads. I’m off to drown in the tears of Jesus.