Rainy Days and Mondays

It’s Monday again, boo! Though I didn’t just awake from a dream in which I was kissing Valentino by a crystal blue Italian stream, today is kind of manic. What IS a crystal blue Italian stream? I mean, why would you dream about that, specifically?
Why does no one write songs about how crappy Tuesdays are? Your week is not even half over. Maybe because Tuesday doesn’t rhyme with anything and doesn’t have a nickname like Hump Day. But if the Bangles can rhyme Monday with Fun Day, I am going to write a song calling Tuesday a good Booze Day. Or John Hughes Day. Or get a Bruise Day. I have big shoes to fill though, cause Susannah Hoffs and the Boomtown Rats really struck a chord when they chose to write about the most loathed day of the week, it’s true that Mondays are just no good.
I really don’t get what my problem is, I just had a lovely weekend, beautful weather and lots of people to see, but Sunday afternoon I started to dread Monday. Truth be told, all weekend I was dealing with a major bout of hypochondria because I got a zit that I mentally turned into a life threatening tumor, or perhaps it was an ingrown hair that has wound itself around my spine and was going to paralyze me. That could happen, I know a guy whose brother had an ingrown hair that did that! I think he’s fine now though. But for real, I have a thing on my skin that doesn’t look pretty.
Ironically in my fits of hypochondria where I think something is way worse than it really is, I don’t seek professional help. I internalize my fake medical problems, think that I am going to die, plan out who gets my belongings (Reece gets all my shoes. After that, really what is there of mine?). Then comes DABDA.
Denial that my pore is so clogged and that a zit is going to be the end of me. If I just use a gentle salt scrub things will be fine. FINE!
Anger that I have overactive sebacious glands.
Bargaining: “Please God. I promise not to touch, poke, prod or pop anything else that comes my way ever again”.
Depression: I have never even booked a commercial. I am too young and pretty for this to happen! WHY ME??
Acceptance: Alas, what can I do? If this is the way I am supposed to go, let me be a teacher to my legions of fans. Let go of your anger, bitterness and sarcasm, don’t use cleansers with harsh irritants, and please, take care of one another. Also, cremate me. I don’t want to be remembered for my hideous skin deformity. Remember me for the kind soul, sassy demeanor and great taste I have in handbags.

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