Monday

Vicenza: Drinking bourbon and listening to songs dreaming about sex. My Monday is envious of your Monday.

Alvaro: Well you're the one I texted about that song. So your Monday had more going on than it knew.

Vicenza: My Monday blushes and bats her eyelashes in response.

Alvaro: Blush and a 'bat? Your Monday is sounding more and more like a Thursday.

Vicenza: Monday dreams often of being a Thursday. She dreams of embodying Thursday's loosening of resolve, Thursday's ability to look joyfully to the future. Getting to be so close to Friday, the hunkiest of the workdays.

Instead, she's left slammed between bittersweet Sunday and lost soul Tuesday. Covered in the world's distaste of what she represents.

Alvaro: It's not a sacrifice she's chosen, but it's one she continues to make. On her beleaguered back grow the rest, each becoming more joyous as they distance themselves from poor Monday.

Like a drab pair of shoes she toils out of the limelight, filling a role that flighty Friday would never have the gumption for.

Vicenza: Yet, if she could only see that her role is an important one, albeit thankless. She provides a service to the world, a certain order that keeps the hedonists from flinging themselves too far from reality, from those who marry themselves to Saturday, the cruel godlike day that promises light and love and freedom but passes so quickly you're left gasping into Sunday.

Monday is the dark new moon, living forever in the shadow of the more popular full moon. Providing us with a fresh start we would rather ignore but so desperately need.

Alvaro: Yet she does boast a secret side, for the true hedonists see Monday not as Monday but as another yawning maw to fill with their favorite poison. She also plays patron saint to those so wedded to their stilted definition of success that she can't even rankle them as she does the rest. At least with the rest she can play villain, but with the workaholics she's just a nameless notch in an ever-lengthening belt.

So she's caught between hate and apathy, and even as the millennia have piled nauseatingly high, she still can't decide which is worse.

At least she gets a trivia night now and again.