Never trust Thursday.

I had a case of the Mondays, but I drank it all on Sunday night.
Now all I'm left with is the Tuesday eye-crud and Wednesdays cotton-mouth. Friday skipped town with Saturday on hump-day (ironic no?), and Thursday left me with a it's-not-you-it's-me scrawled from last weeks dryer-scuffed pen.
Sorry Thursday, it really wasn't me. It was you. "All you have to do is make it through one more day," you said. "you can do whatever you want with me." We hit it off while the moonlight burned. I followed you through the yellow darkness, waiting for my chance like a college kid begging to give a backrub. You gleamed at me with just enough encouragement, whispered just enough weekendisaroundthecorners into my ear. I bought it all. Paid cash. Cleaned out the bank account. But like a trip to the less-than-a-dollar store, when I emptied my bags later all I saw was a big fat pile of Fuck You. You lulled me to sleep with Wednesdays leftovers and a smirk. I woke up to your letter, a blaring alarm clock, and a dull ache down below that told me the week wasn't over. You do it on purpose, laugh as we are strung along in your sirens song and dash our hopes on the cliffs of Friday. All your Thursday seductions are gone and all we have left is blue-balls and one more day of work.