Monday showed up like it owns the place. No apology. No lube. Just a firm knock on the skull and a reminder that the week does not care about your feelings.

In a perfect, fictional universe—one run by compassion and paid sick days—Mondays would come with a doctor’s note and a controlled environment. Soft lighting. Deep breaths. The kind of coping strategies HR pretends exist.

But here we are.

So no, this isn’t a manifesto for anything illegal. Relax. This is gallows humor. Dark wit. The only truly affordable healthcare left: sarcasm and a cold beer that says, “I see you’re struggling… I won’t fix it, but I’ll sit with you.”

Beer doesn’t ask questions.

Beer doesn’t schedule meetings.

Beer doesn’t send emails marked “urgent” that absolutely are not.

It just listens while you stare at the wall wondering how, somehow, Sunday night teleported into full-blown Monday hellscape.

Is beer a solution?

No.

Is it a coping pause button?

Absolutely.

This is about survival, not celebration. About taking the edge off long enough to remember: you’ve survived worse, you’ll survive this, and tomorrow you might even laugh about it.

So here’s to Mondays.

Not conquered. Just tolerated.

Barely.

With foam.

Peace, persistence, and poor decisions postponed till Friday.

— Saint Dirty Face™

[Stay Dirty, Stay Human™]