Sunday has a strange split personality. For some, it’s the grand finale—the last gasp of the week, the slow fade-out before Monday crashes in. For others, it’s the starting gun, the “ready or not, here we go again” of a new week.

Me? I see it as the beginning. A fresh week, a new slate… even if tomorrow’s Monday and that slate is already smeared with fingerprints and 5 hour energy shot stains.

I tossed ten bucks at the lottery this weekend. Didn’t hit a single number. Ten dollars down the cosmic drain. Maybe it’s better I didn’t win that billion—because a jackpot that size doesn’t just change your life, it warps it. Rich problems, poor problems… still problems. Maybe staying broke-but-breathing is safer.

And now we’re in that no-man’s-land between seasons. The heat hasn’t left, the cold hasn’t arrived, the air feels like it can’t make up its damn mind. Sinuses revolt, the sky teases rain it won’t deliver, and my head’s throbbing like it owes rent.

But here we are. Another Sunday. Another “start or finish” depending on your philosophy. Raise your imaginary beers with me. Here’s to a week better than the last.

Skål. Stay Dirty, Stay Dangerous.

—Saint Dirty Face™