I hate Sundays.
I've said it before. I said it on Twitter [and got a lot of people responding that they hate them, too]. I'm sure I'll say it again.
They just make me so angry and unhappy and full of dread.
I spent the entire day Sunday ready to punch anyone who got in my way. It was not a nice feeling. Not even a little bit. Not for anyone involved.
I'm not even sure why I was so angry. I mean, there were a lot of annoying little things that happened - running out of soap for the shower, papers sliding off my desk, realizing I had three baskets of laundry to fold - but these were things that had happened often and never really set me over the edge [unlike, say, losing your phone - but that's a whole 'nother post]. It was a perfect storm of minor annoyances and crazy juice build up that had me muttering under my breath about how much I fucking hated everyone and everything and these stupid fucking cats and their stupid fucking hair and what the hell? why hadn't the husband made the bed again?
It was exhausting. And I kept having to say, over and over, "I'm sorry, please don't talk to me, I hate you and want to kill you right now," to the husband and the girl [I didn't tell the girl I wanted to kill her, just that I was in a really bad mood for no reason; I'm not THAT bad a parent. Just a really bad spouse. Consider yourself warned, in case I get divorced and am looking for a replacement spouse and have fixated on you.].
I mean, having a bad day because of some catastrophe at work or home or in the world, that I get. Even if it's lack of sleep or PMS or an imbalance in my humours or chakras, sure I get that. But hating on TINA FEY because she is so awesome and I am not and we'll never be friends? That's just wrong. [And so guilt inducing that I apologized to her audiobook for thinking evil thoughts. I may need medication.]
The only moderately o.k. time was taking the girl to see Scream 4 at the local third [fourth?] run theater [eh, it was fine, but too gory for our tastes], but I swear to god, as soon as it was over and I tried to use the tiniest bathroom in the history of the universe [it was the size of a coffin, no lie], the anger started building until I walked back into the house and that AAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH hateful feeling came crushing back.
Which led me to think that maybe I really need to re-vamp the house, except there is no money, and frankly? I don't want to live here anymore and I don't have a job to make money to leave and I am functionally unemployable and I have a really hard time deciding how to decorate and maybe I need to find an interior designer, but seriously? for this tiny house? or maybe I should just get rid of everything and that AAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHH just started all over again.
And so I had a really bad day, for seemingly no reason, that only ended when I went to bed at 1:00am after a tummy ache [I will spare you the details, but suffice to say, I'm glad I wasn't in India].
Does this ever happen to you? Where your hate dial gets turned to 11 for no reason? Please say yes. I'd like to not be alone when I'm a fucking lunatic.
*Probably the best book title ever, although I am no fan of Alexander's giant melon-head. Huh. Evidently the crabbiness and bitchitude have not left the building. Awesome.