Tear my heart out, slow roast me over a fire, pull off my eyebrows strand by strand, push pins though my fingernails….do anything to me, anything but a monday.

Thady begins his memoirs of the Rackrent Family by dating MONDAY MORNING, because no great undertaking can be auspiciously commenced in Ireland on any morning but MONDAY MORNING. 'Oh, please God we live till Monday morning, we'll set the slater to mend the roof of the house. On Monday morning we'll fall to, and cut the turf. On Monday morning we'll see and begin mowing. On Monday morning, please your honour, we'll begin and dig the potatoes,' etc.

All the intermediate days, between the making of such speeches and the ensuing Monday, are wasted: and when Monday morning comes, it is ten to one that the business is deferred to THE NEXT Monday morning. The Editor knew a gentleman, who, to counteract this prejudice, made his workmen and labourers begin all new pieces of work upon a Saturday.

So. Monday. We meet again.

We will never be friends—but maybe we can move past our mutual enmity toward a more-positive partnership.

There are no miracles on Mondays.

Monday is an awful way to spend 1/7 of your life.

“How about “I have done the impossible” book for mothers. We can record being able to laugh without feeling it in our stitches, first nights sleep, and all the joys people forget to mention.”