By Saint Dirty Face

The rant of a working grumpy saint with a dirty face.

Hump Day.

Also known as “Dump Day” in the spiritual calendar of exhausted rebels.

Let me break it down:

I’ve been locked in a head-on collision with a migraine demon since sunrise. And yes, I hear your judgment:

“Well maybe if you went to bed at a decent hour…”

Listen here, Todd—rebels don’t tuck in early. I’m out here conducting sacred acts of insomnia, prayer, and scrolling. So yeah, I woke up groggy, pissed off, and approximately 1.5 hours late to work. Did I panic? Hell no.

I stopped for chocolate milk and gas station snacks. If you’re gonna show up late, at least show up fueled and fabulous.

I strut in like a gremlin that survived the apocalypse, one eye twitching from pain, the other scanning the office for anyone brave enough to speak to me.

Everyone’s presence = offensive.

Should I go feral? 🗡

Should I ghost the whole day? 👻

Should I fake a spiritual awakening and float home like a robe-wearing sage? 🧘‍♂️✨

Choices, people. Real. Dirty. Choices.

But alas—I take the path of least resistance:

I pop migraine meds like Skittles, drink water like I’ve been lost in the Sahara, and go on a soul-searching lunch break that may or may not have been a nap in my car.

The kicker?

Every time I check the clock… it’s moved exactly 5 damn minutes.

The universe is trolling me in real-time.

JFC.

Why, Lord, why?

So what now? I’ll half-ass one task just to prove I’m technically employed, maybe sneak into the system and adjust the office clock to 5 PM just to manifest closure.

And when that moment hits?

I’m out.

Bag of snacks in hand, migraine slightly sedated, and not a single regret in my bones.

See ya later, bitches.

Stay grumpy. Stay glorious.

– Saint Dirty Face ✊🏻🔥