You’ve always been able to identify with that quote from Office Space, whether you’ve seen it or not. “Uh-oh. Looks like someone’s got a case of the Mondays.” You’d like to meet someone who has never been afflicted with this crippling disease, but those elite few are nonexistent.

The people on the weather channel have fucked you over again, claiming a snowstorm would come in overnight and sweep all your cares away, or at least move them back a day. You left that report on the table next to an empty coffee mug, assured that you’d have time to finish it up tomorrow. But now it’s tomorrow, and your alarm’s going off. It’s five-thirty in the morning, and you’re awake. What the hell?

You roll over and crane your neck to peer out the window, just to make a last-ditch effort at convincing yourself that you’re snowed in. You have to squint through the sunlight to see that there’s no snow on the ground, no magical powder. Your mind flickers briefly as you wonder if anyone has any of the real magic powder, the kind that will help you feel better about the fact that there’s none on the ground. You’re too nervous to dig deeper into the subject, though; your mom might find out, and then you’d really have a problem on your hands.

The fridge is ajar, and there’s a carton of milk that’s openon the counter. Did you do that? Maybe you put it in your coffee last night. Where’s the dog? When you can’t find him, he usually took a shit somewhere in the house, and you have to prepare yourselves for landmines everywhere you step. The milk is tempting and you take a swig, letting the disgustingly warm liquid coat the inside of your throat. You want to spit it into the sink, but you want strong bones, too. You force it down. Mom’s just getting off the night shift, so you’ll be gone by the time she gets back. Your fingers curl around the remote and, just for the hell of it, you decide to tune in to the people who have ruined your day.

“We were really thrown for a loop, there, Joanne!”

“That’s right, Dale! But I’m sure all of you out there are happy that it’s so nice out! You could potentially go outside today without a jacket!”

“Ha ha! Let’s not push it, Joanne! We’re going to have a high of forty-five today, with some slight winds, and possibly, just possibly, we might see a flurry or two later this evening…”

You feel betrayed. You wish you could tell these people just how much you hate them right now, but the plans you have to do so would be politically incorrect and socially inappropriate. Your appetite is gone; you can wait until lunch. You want to wear scrubs today, but people judge. You don’t want to be talked about, mocked, so you drag yourself upstairs to find something to wear.

No matter how idiotic it may look, today is a day you feel tempted to wrap yourself in a Snuggie, or at least just put on a robe backwards. You have a mad desire to do one of those two things, make some hot chocolate, and spend the day watching your complete collection of Entourage. Your fingers itch to turn down the thermostat to thirty-three degrees—just above freezing—so you can get the feel of the day off that has been ripped from you. If you close your door and pretend to snore obnoxiously, will your mom leave you alone when she gets home? Will she check up on you before crashing into bed herself?

A gray fleece shirt frowns at you, but you shrug and tug the shirt over your head anyway. There are some jeans draped over your desk chair, and you trip into those, too. Socks, shoes, you’re really cooking now. You don’t want to go back downstairs and face that report. You consider making up an excuse, one that hasn’t been used before.

We ran out of toilet paper.

I thought Snyder was supposed to write that?

My mom blacked out before I could get the password to her laptop.

I just didn’t do it, okay?

None of those will work, so you muster up some courage and decide to go downstairs anyway. You dump the warm milk in the sink—you’re not wasteful, there was only a few drops left—and punt the carton into the trash. You were never much for sports, but you can punt any type of carton like nobody’s business. You take pride in this, but you’d never show it off to anyone. It’s your own special secret.

Your eyes wander toward the stack of papers next to the coffee mug. They should be filled by now with neat, typed words strung together to make compact little sentences, but they’re not. You remember a doodling game you began on a sheet around 11:30 last night. Draw a squiggle, make something out of it. Challenge yourself. Let your imagination soar.

It got a little out of hand.

You grab your wallet, cell phone, and keys. The day’s about to begin, even though it shouldn’t. You should still be in bed. There’s no way you should have been able to make it in today, but you can. Your car’s not snowed in, you don’t have to spend forty-five minutes scraping away at the windows with the defroster blasting. God damn it. As you reach the doorway, you decide to make the best of it.

The car door slams behind you, and as you make yourself comfortable, your fingers pull the GPS system close. Before you know it, you’ve typed in “New York City.” The keys are in the ignition. You shift gears, back out of the driveway, and drive.

As you glance back at the house in the rearview mirror, you wonder—just for a second—if you’ll ever go back.