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At the moment, I hate weekends. And Bank Holidays, Christmas, periods of National mourning and, potentially, sporting events of such cultural importance that employers en masse shrug and give everyone the day off to save us the hassle of lying badly. But mostly weekends.
Nine-to-five, Monday to Friday, I may be chilly, I may be eating rice and chickpeas for dinner again, I may be reduced to trawling the internet for the one remaining fanfic I haven't read yet to stave off the crushing boredom: but I'm not in an office. This sustains me (and might explain my long-term unemployment) and all is well. Then the weekend rolls around and, although my life is objectively no different, the fact that everyone else is having a much better time than they normally do is enough to trigger my misanthropic tendancies.
Shiny, happy people
they must die...
Oh, and the fact that when you open tins of soup there's a layer of tasty, meaty goodness stuck to the underside of the lid just teasing you with the potential waste of soup you've paid cold, hard cash for. I can't bring myself to ignore it, but always end up cutting my tongue or lip on the sharp end of the lid and it bleeds a ridiculous amount for such a tiny injury.
Finally, I must just add my resentment of bastard, so-called friends who get drunk and then shave off my lovely, warm, sheltering scarf/beard in the middle of freezing winter. What the hell am I supposed to hide behind now? Fucktards. |
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