A Saint Dirty Face Micro-Sermon

Mondays don’t arrive, my man—they kick the damn door in like a repo agent who’s been practicing his roundhouse kicks all weekend.

They don’t knock.

They don’t greet you.

They don’t care about your hopes, dreams, or that fragile sliver of peace you found Sunday night somewhere between prayer, exhaustion, and pretending everything is fine.

Nope.

Monday shows up like an emotionally unstable ex saying,

“Hey. Remember me?

I brought paperwork and regret.”

You step into the week, coffee still negotiating with your bloodstream, and the universe immediately hits you with:

A printer jamming like it’s choking on your will to live. A coworker who says “Happy Monday!” with serial-killer enthusiasm. A meeting that should’ve been an email… and the email that should’ve been left UNSENT forever. Someone complaining about a problem they personally created last Thursday.

And somewhere in all this chaos, you whisper to yourself:

“Just act normal. Fake human. Smile like you aren’t internally on fire.”

But nah.

Monday sniffs that lie out like a bloodhound on Red Bull and decides to spray gasoline on your patience just to see what happens.

At this point, you’re not working—you’re surviving, like you’re trapped in a National Geographic documentary about a wounded Gen X’er trying to navigate a habitat overrun with confused children masquerading as adults.

And yet…

Somehow, some way, you push through.

Not because you’re inspired.

Not because you’re motivated.

But because you’re Gen X and we do life like we do everything else:

Quietly.

Sarcastically.

With enough trauma-bonded humor to make God sip His coffee slow.

So raise your mug, brother.

Here’s to another Monday survived by sheer spite, spiritual caffeine, and the unholy strength of knowing Friday will return like a long-lost lover.

Stay dirty.

Stay rebellious.

Stay human.™

— Saint Dirty Face