“’cause Sundays are my suicide days. ” –Twenty one pilots.
I’ve started dreading Sundays. They’re my worst day of the week. I don’t know exactly which part I hate the most: the pretense from 9 (sometimes 8) to 12 or the feeling of uselessness afterwards.
This Sunday, however, I planned on writing. I’m working on my first novel and I’m giving it everything I’ve got. But Sundays don’t like me too. There hasn’t been light for five days; devices are either dead or low, and I’m sweating from the heat. Mosquitos didn’t let me have the night in peace and I’m struggling to keep my eyes open. I’m sick from the flu too. Cough and catarrh every 10 seconds. I’m crying too. Because people and relationships are complicated and life is hard.
Sundays are miserable days.