the essential bob dylan

Holy shit do I have a serious case of the Mondays. The dreaded, back to work, hopefully you’re not still hungover from the weekend, time to wake up, respond to calls, focus, pretend to be interested, make the man money, fight traffic and sleepy eyes, rinse wash and repeat Mondays. Bob Dylan is jamming on my speakers now, my head is pounding, begging me to depart work early and hide back underneath the warm confines of my cozy bed. I think I have about three phone calls I really don’t feel like returning. My timesheet from last week awaits completion, hopefully before noon or else that pain in the ass assistant will be coming around with her shrill sarcastic voice asking like a concerned mother that isn’t really your mother just an annoying growth on your ass of a person, bugging the crap out of everyone to get their timesheets in before 2 o’clock or else. “Sure,” I’ll reply, trying not to look completely annoyed, full well knowing she won’t be getting anything out of me until at least late tonight when I finally snap out of it. For now, though, it’s much more fun to pretend like I’m hard at work, type away nonsensical lyrical verbosities for my friends in cyberspace to relate to, sip on my tea, and wonder, “How does it feel, to be on your own, with no direction home, like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone.”

Raising my third cup of tea, TO THE DREADED FCUKING MONDAYS.