Why it’s Tuesday you say? We should celebrate!

Then comes the next days hangover.

You crawl out of bed, at 8:30, no one will miss you first thing. Brushing your teeth is too loud. Oh happy Advil!

Wearing yesterdays makeup, a sloppy bun, and legging as pants, you slink to your car. Fuck you MUNI. You probably shouldn’t be driving, but fuck you MUNI. You pull into the overly priced parking lot across from your office, (you should really stop driving EVERY day; LYFT is great in the morning, so’s UberX when you can get it. You refuse to get regular Uber just to go to work. Except that one time… And that other one. Fuck you MUNI) and you proceed to your red bricked, exposed ceiling, open floor planned, office.

In your offices full stocked kitchen you stop and think about your life, and think about your choices, while you debate making coffee, using the keurig, or the nespresso.  Thank GOD there is Kombucha in the fridge. You need a coconut water, and a sando. The office doesn’t get breakfast on Wednesday. Shit.

You chat a little with your coworkers. You make a crack about your poor life choices to your office bestie. And then you sit.

Your first two hours are a blur. You check your Facebook, your favorite tumblrs, your email. You gchat how hungover you are to EVERYONE you know. Check your email. Get another coffee. Update your status: “Hit the sauce a little hard last night. Ouch.” Everyone comments. Comment strings are your own personal chat rooms where everyone you went to high school with can see how amazingly witty you are, and be jealous of your fantastic life.

What did you agree to do last night? Your entire weekend is now booked. Face palm.

Your whole body aches. You debate postmating yourself a sandwich for lunch. Nah. You’ll eat the catered office food, why waste your money? You watch two games of ping pong. Your friend sends you a youtube link that is amazing and profound. You send it to everyone you know. You check your email. You buy those moccasins you saw last night online, overnight shipping, you want them now.

You finally start to feel like yourself again; it was that afternoon Cento and the second coconut water.

You’re getting ready to head home for a quiet night. You check your email.

Impromptu happy hour at Tres. Ugh! Sure, you’ll go. But you’ll only have two drinks.