Saint Dirty Face

Monday evening finally arrived.

For some people it’s the start of the week.

For the poor souls who clocked in on Sunday, it’s already Day Two of the grind.

Either way…

Monday hits like a freight train.

It’s amazing how quiet the weekend can be.

Almost peaceful.

Then Monday shows up and suddenly the entire world remembers you exist.

This broke.

That broke.

The car is making a weird noise.

I need money for this.

I need money for that.

It’s like everyone waited until Monday morning to dump their problems on your porch.

And the kids… oh man.

Kids have this incredible belief that their parents are some kind of walking ATM machine.

“Dad I need money.”

“Dad can you buy this?”

“Dad can we get that?”

And when you say…

“Not right now.”

They look at you like you just told them the sky turned purple.

Like…

“Wait… what do you mean?”

Are we poor?

I swear sometimes I just smile and shake my head.

Because one day…

Those same kids are going to have kids of their own.

And when that day comes…

I’m going to sit back in a chair, sip a little whiskey, and laugh.

Not because I’m cruel.

But because the cycle will finally make sense.

And when their kid walks up asking for money for the fourth time that day…

They’ll hear a little voice in the back of their head saying:

“Welcome to Monday.”

Saint Dirty Face.

Stay Dirty. Stay Human.