Sunday Funday...NOT

I'm currently laying on my couch staring at a plate of burnt sausages while wearing my "I love BJ's" t-shirt...alone...proving that dreams really do come true. And if it isn't glaringly obvious, I've been reading The Secret so I totally fucking manifested this moment.

Feeling like a busted up hooker for the last 30 years on Sundays seems to be a pattern for me this summer. On Saturday nights I go out. Like I'm talking balls to the wall kind of out. I drink, act creepy, dance, become best friends with strange women in the bathroom at the bar, send some vulgar sexts to men I haven't spoken to in years, eat 7 slices of pizza, respond to sexts, come home, regret sexts, order more pizza, pass out and get banned from Pizza Pizza for missing my order, wake up on my couch and wonder why my hair is curly when it was straight last night, do double take in mirror when I realize I have cheese in my hair eat it and simultaneously discover more chin hair, sigh, exclaim "what the fuck" in the mirror, frantically search for my phone, realize it's dead and curl up in fetal position for 10 minutes on my couch with my heart racing wondering who I could have possibly texted, turn on my phone to read last night's sent messages, vow to never drink again, send a few apology texts, send text to find my wallet, lip gloss and dignity, walk to my kitchen and wonder what it's like to be an over achiever, stare in my fridge and wish I bought hot dogs, think about the recent hike in the price of hot dogs, pour a glass of water only to notice my hands are shaking, google "disorders that make your hands shake", call my mom to tell her Web MD says I'm dying, call my mom back after she hangs up, take a Xanax, hate my life, turn on TLC and hope to fuck there is a 48 Hours Mystery marathon on, realize nothing is fair in this life when it's a Say Yes to the Dress marathon, call my friend *Trixi* for my afternoon meltdown and recap of last night's events, yell "you've got to be fucking kidding me" into the phone, whip my phone across apartment only to remember I don't have a case on it, pick up phone, sigh, realize I'm so dehydrated that I haven't peed all day, go sit on toilet, cry, wash hands, lay face down on my couch and scream into my pillow, realize I'm still wearing last night's makeup, observe makeup on my $100 pillows and freak the fuck out, throw pillow, still don't wash my face, get distracted by the little Asian kid screaming outside my window, hope I'm not pregnant, order chicken balls, lift up my shirt in the mirror and jiggle my tummy, sigh, google fat blasting tips on the Internet created by skinny bitches,receive message from a Plenty of Fish user named "Noheadgames69" who asks if I like peanut butter sandwiches and morning sex, smash my head off my coffee table in fit of rage, black out, wake up, eat a ham sandwich, question the meaning of life, scroll through Tinder, wonder why I'm not getting any matches, finally get a match, wonder when the hell I liked this guy's photo, remember that I was doing some late night  Tindering while drinking, receive creepy message, send mass text to all my girlfriends announcing I'm quitting dating, immediately upload new pics on Match.com, realize it's only 5pm and I should probably eat...again, make Kraft Dinner, eat entire pot, shame spiral on my couch, check my online dating account for this week's dick pics, get grossed out, take screen shot and send to my girlfriends, go out on my balcony just to say I've been outside today, say a little prayer to the heavens that one day Jay Z and I will be friends, notice a suspicious mole on my arm, come in and google "suspicious moles", call my mom and tell her Web MD says I'm dying, call mom back and ask her what she's eating for dinner, get jealous, order a pizza, watch TMZ, wish I could punch Justin Bieber in the face, remember Long Island Medium is on, practice Long Island accent during commercials, take a sleeping pill, cry because Theresa Caputo is the best, wonder how the hell she connects with dead people, wonder what I would do if I woke up and saw a ghost standing over me, turn on every light in my apartment, get in bed with the lights on, pull covers up over my face, worry I left the stove on, run to the kitchen, stare at dishes in sink, mutter "fuck it" under my breath, run back to bed, lay in bed and worry I didn't lock my door, run to the door-it's wide open, convince myself there is someone in my closet, get back in bed, think about signing up for a martial arts class, lay awake until 5am, get up at 5:03am for work and pretend Sunday never happened.

Whoever created the term "#Sunday Funday" was a total asshole.

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