𝑴𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒏𝒖𝒕𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒍. It’s Monday, and I must say it hadn’t been a good one. Though, in fairness, that feels like an unnecessary clarification. Mondays rarely arrive with good intentions. Between the endless demands at work, the co-worker who behaves as though they are both invisible and the single greatest contribution to the modern workplace (they are neither), and the strange culture that treats leaving on time as if it were a minor criminal offense, the day stretched itself out like some slow, petty form of punishment. Emails multiplied. Tasks appeared out of thin air. Somewhere between late morning and mid-afternoon, you experienced what can only be described as four small, private mental breakdowns. Nothing dramatic though. Just the quiet kind where you stare at your screen a little too long and briefly consider disappearing into the wilderness to raise goats. Eventually, the day ended. Or at least the office stopped pretending it needed you. You got into your car with clouds in your head. Not the romantic, poetic kind but the dense, grey administrative type that fills your head with thoughts like why does everything need a password and why is the printer always out of paper. You remember starting the engine. After that, the drive home dissolved into a blur of red lights, familiar turns, and the strange autopilot that takes over when your brain has quietly resigned for the evening. One moment you were leaving the office parking lot. The next, you were sitting in your garage. Engine off. House quiet. Mind somewhere between exhaustion and mild existential confusion. You sat there for a moment, hands still resting on the steering wheel, staring at nothing in particular, like someone who had briefly forgotten how evenings work. Then you sighed. Because adulthood, much like Monday, is relentless. And you thought to yourself, well. I better go file my taxes. M. | March 2026

𝑴𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒏𝒖𝒕𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒍. It’s Monday, and I must say it hadn’t been a good one. Though, in fairness, that feels like an unnecessary clarification. Mondays rarely arrive with good intentions. Between the endless demands at work, the co-worker who behaves as though they are both invisible and the single greatest contribution to the modern workplace (they are neither), and the strange culture that treats leaving on time as if it were a minor criminal offense, the day stretched itself out like some slow, petty form of punishment. Emails multiplied. Tasks appeared out of thin air. Somewhere between late morning and mid-afternoon, you experienced what can only be described as four small, private mental breakdowns. Nothing dramatic though. Just the quiet kind where you stare at your screen a little too long and briefly consider disappearing into the wilderness to raise goats. Eventually, the day ended. Or at least the office stopped pretending it needed you. You got into your car with clouds in your head. Not the romantic, poetic kind but the dense, grey administrative type that fills your head with thoughts like why does everything need a password and why is the printer always out of paper. You remember starting the engine. After that, the drive home dissolved into a blur of red lights, familiar turns, and the strange autopilot that takes over when your brain has quietly resigned for the evening. One moment you were leaving the office parking lot. The next, you were sitting in your garage. Engine off. House quiet. Mind somewhere between exhaustion and mild existential confusion. You sat there for a moment, hands still resting on the steering wheel, staring at nothing in particular, like someone who had briefly forgotten how evenings work. Then you sighed. Because adulthood, much like Monday, is relentless. And you thought to yourself, well. I better go file my taxes. M. | March 2026

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