By Saint Dirty Face

First, it’s all TGIF smiles and weekend romance, right?

You flirt with freedom, make love to sleep, and pretend Monday doesn’t exist.

But come Sunday night…

Boom.

Reality backhands you like a bitter ex with hemorrhoids and unresolved trauma.

I clung to the weekend like a desperate breakup text at 3 AM.

I refused to let go.

I went full “Weekend Stockholm Syndrome.”

And then she arrived—

Monday.

With her ugly little inbox full of “urgent” fires that magically burn out on their own.

Text after text, email after email, and not one of them worth the anxiety they caused.

So here I am,

sitting at my desk, yawning so hard I briefly saw my soul.

Not suicidal—let’s be clear—

but very much considering ending it all by simply standing up,

walking out,

and going back to bed like a man with priorities.

I slam my energy shot.

It laughs in my bloodstream.

I scratch a lotto ticket, praying for salvation—

and that little bastard whispers,

“Loser.”

Right to my face.

😂 Damn you, lotto gods. You cold.

But hey, half the workday is over.

Every tick of the clock is one breath closer to escape.

I whisper false promises to myself:

“Tonight I’ll be in bed early. Like a responsible adult.”

Sure, buddy.

Let’s not lie to each other.

Truth is—this leg of my nursing career?

Hasn’t lit a fire under me in a long time.

It’s been paint-by-numbers.

Clipboard dreams and lukewarm passion.

It’s time.

Time to find my next forever job.

Not perfect, just better.

Give me 7–10 years of purpose and a countdown to retirement that doesn’t feel like watching paint dry in a windowless room.

But I digress.

The taint of this job calls,

and I must go sniff the day’s drama like a good little trauma-trained soldier.

Tomorrow?

Tomorrow’s a new dawn. A new day.

Lotto gods—I know you hear me.

I’m ready for my miracle. Preferably cash.

Peace & Love, bitches.

– Saint Dirty Face

Stay Dirty. Stay Dangerous.