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We are a generation very clearly obsessed with brunch. Sunday brunch is “our thing” and it’s not worth attending if it isn’t both boozy and bottomless.

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1. Drink, because adult beverages early in the day are justifiable.

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Once about 8 p.m. hits on Sunday evening, it’s like somebody died. Everyone gets quiet, there’s high tension and emotion, we make eye contact with one another but nobody wants to speak the thought we’re all sharing.

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You might feel more inclined to listen to Monday-themed songs in earnest, namely “Manic Monday” by the Bangles but potentially “Monday, Monday” by the Mamas and the Papas if you had great sex over the weekend, or “Blue Monday” by New Order if you haven’t slept since Thursday.

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I remember the good times, babe. Don’t think I don’t. I remember the concerts we went to last summer, I remember the lawn chairs and the taco trucks and the Moscow Mules. I remember drunkenly buying books from street vendors, and the time I bought that Beatles album with the typo on the cover? That was so exciting! We ran to the ATM, threw our surcharge cautions to the wind.