SERGIO HENRY BEN
Some Monday shit.
Good morning. How about we just start with morning. The good is delayed. Peak traffic. Sometimes you need to sit down, light a cigarette and start the story with “Let me tell you why sometimes I don’t like Mondays.” Talk to the air. Say it out loud to the patient paper. To a cup of coffee quietly waiting its turn to help. Or a teacup of bourbon. Sip. Puff. Sip. Puff. Sip. And sometimes you need to let the ash fall on the tablecloth, because your story, why a Monday hurts, is impatient to hit the stage and tell the truth that “Once upon a time” is not a once-off performance. The truth is that “Once upon a time” is not for the afflicted, for those who live too close to Life’s thoughtless cruelty. Because sometimes on a Monday, usually first thing, you need to convince yourself that you need to be okay with some shit. Shit out of your control.
Shit you created in innocent genesis and shit you gave birth in the malicious hell upstairs of your neck. Shit as immutable as the fucking sun. And sometimes you need to suffer like the sun and patiently wait for the 5 million years to tick-tock-tick-tock-tick-fucking-tock to its explosive flamboyant finish; to finally rest in a room of blessed darkness free of a fucking shit obligation to set yourself alight so others can stay warm. Fuck that shit. Yeah, sometimes on a Monday, you need to drop anchor at those coordinates. And let me tell you, Fuck That Shit has a fucking beautiful beach.
Sometimes on a Monday, you need to let the dishes pile up because you’re too busy digging for courage in your arse, polishing it and convincing yourself, “This is something I can work with!” and immediately start paying the premiums on such risky investment. Sometimes on a Monday, you need to pack your bags and board your flight to Nostalgia and check in at 5-star memories. Don’t worry, the front desk already knows it will be a late check-out. And on such days, you need to let the body rot so the soul may grow and flourish and stand tall and yield fruit of such aching perfection … you cry tears of love … love you had thought forever lost. And on such days, comes the wisdom that such unconditional love is not gone from this world. It’s just endangered and in hiding from another’s ma se poes genocide! Because sometimes on a Monday, you’re sitting in Life’s departure lounge and wonder how in the good fuck did you get there. Sometimes on a Monday, things get a little bit, um…, whatever. And that’s fine. Sometimes on a Monday, allow the infection sitting on your chest to come for air and allow it to say what the fuck it needs to say. “Please, help me.” “Please, take that hour-long drive, bang on my door and hug the ever-loving shit out of me.” “Please, I desperately want to hear I am loved and that the criminal record bullied on to me doesn’t matter.” Sometimes on a Monday, the meal is not over until you hate yourself. Sometimes on a Monday, family and friends robe and style you in a fabulous backless, strapless gown from celebrated couturist, Envy. So stand on that red carpet and as you must yet again explain your life, give them some face over the shoulder. Feed them until near bursting. Sometimes on a Monday, you need to lose your fucking shit. Sometimes a Monday is International Apology-Free Day – a whole 24 hours of walking barefoot and not giving a fuck about dirty untidy hair. A day to get out of that fucking wheelchair you style as some throne of despair while waiting for an apology you are never ever gonna get. Sometimes on a Monday, you need to undulate, move those snake hips and tempt your murder to manifest, to be on time, because getting repeatedly knifed by Life is preferable to the years-long strangle.
Sometimes on a Monday you need to cum and cum … bitch, you need to cum over and over until the hurt stops hurting. Sometimes on a Monday, you realise that Evil is real. Evil is a proper medical diagnosis. Evil is like the flu. We all get it now and again.