Sundays

   Its Sunday, and everything sucks. On any given Sunday night, roughly ninety thrillion people are sitting around, picking dried food out of the grooves in their keyboards with the handle end of a spoon. Everyone who was yelling "yoloswag" at the top of their lungs in the lobby of their walk-up is not moisturizing their hands while staring at a blank Excel document. People are wishing that Facebook was more entertaining so that they can hide from the vapidity of their real lives.
   On Sundays there are so many other things that you should be doing but you would rather torrent the entire Celine Dion discography than any of those things-- and thats saying something. You watch tutorials featuring a girl who appears to be wearing a marble loaf on the top of her head, teaching you how to grind in a "classy way"; how to rub your butt in someone's crotch in a tasteful manner. These are things that on Sundays, you decide are of infinite importance.
   You eat roughly six small meals and use the same dinnerware for all of them, without washing in between because you care about the environment, duh. The only thing that stops you from eating more is the naps you need to take periodically, every time you try to pick up a book and read. They don't call it Sunday funday for nothing.