Tuesday Is The Bad Day
Fuck Tuesday.
Tuesday is the bad day.
Most days have their merits, their flaws, but Tuesday comes out the sullen loser.
The void visits on Tuesdays.
Sunday has the stench of lost leisure and approaching responsibility. It’s a cloudy dread born in grade school and never dissipated. But Sunday has a higher chance of horizontal time wasting. Maybe even something wholesome, like mowing the lawn, clippings clinging to your socks, gasoline hands, the faint smell of aluminum as you open a Coors Banquet, sun gone, maybe if you’re lucky the good, bright bugs are around.
While mowing is wholesome, visiting a home and garden store on Saturday is not. It is one of Saturday’s rare evils. Otherwise, Saturday gets off light. It’s cookouts and celebrations, parks and parties. It can be seemingly endless; Friday’s revelatory glow and Sunday’s rest stretching it at both ends.
Mondays are typical. Adjustment. Letting go of the weekend. But, largely, projection—assumed unease for the week’s exhaustion, for the tedium to come. Mondays rarely differ, nearly everyone detests them, yet thankfully not many people try to pike a personality on it like enjoying coffee, the world’s most popular drink, or being a nerd, as everyone is a nerd, even jocks (they’re nerds for sports, dummy).
Well, there is one personality rooted in the disdain for Monday, and it’s Garfield. And Garfield? He’s good.
When Tuesday arrives you have now already suffered the barbs of that tedium, experienced the cuts that will continue, the pain still fresh on your skin. And your awful worrisome brain is reminding you that you have four more days of this. Get used to the sting.
Tuesday is stuck. That heavy weight of Monday is pressing on your shoulders and everyone else’s too, with Wednesday, the halfway point, in sight yet far from reach.
Tuesday drags. Tuesday is dull in indescribable ways. If traffic were a day it’d be Tuesday.
Tuesday was briefly exciting. Once, it was venturing to Wherehouse or Tower Records. New CDs came out on Tuesdays. They don’t do that anymore. Tuesday is aging.
Not to get too nostalgic about CDs or anything. CDs are pretty stupid.
Wednesday, as mentioned earlier, is largely considered the halfway point. Often times the worst thing that happens on Wednesday is that some crass individual will call it “hump day.” There are usually enjoyable, light events on Wednesdays.
Thursday has a nice feel to it. I want to hold Thursday in my hand like a baseball. Friday is so close that you can feel it. In recent decades Thursday nights have even rivaled Friday nights with regard to drinking, partying, having sex. And we need that. A lot.
Well look who it is, everybody’s favorite buddy, Friday. Friday needs no explanation. It is the exhale. The citizens thank God when it is Friday.
Maybe I have made Tuesday my own monster, soiled one innocent day of the week to fill with all the bad, the clumps of anxiety, big and small. I take it in one hard swing across the jaw, get it over with, wash on Wednesday.
Or maybe Tuesday is just piss on its own. In Greek mythology a god would turn you into Tuesday as punishment for squandering opportunity.
It’s not clockwork. Sometimes Tuesday comes on a Thursday. Or between days, between sheets. But I know when it’s that Tuesday feeling—a soft horror humming in my face.
Also? Tuesday is Election Day, which is the failed orgasm of hate-sex.
Fuck Tuesday.