Hilariously Honest Names For Days Of The Week, For Anyone With Depression

Monday is like listening to the Silver Side Up album on repeat until your brain begins to seep out of your ears. It's the universe's big "FUCK YOU" for attempting to have a life outside of the workweek. 

When you drag yourself into the office, your inbox is loaded with approximately 3,000 emails. Your boss is pissy, which in turn, gives you more anxiety. She's probably just thinking about what a big mistake it was to hire you. You've really got to ramp up your game this week. 

If, god forbid, Sherry from Accounting stops you even for a moment to ask about your weekend, it takes every fiber of your being to keep from screaming, "I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR YOU, PEASANT!" You're so stressed and rigid, your shoulders could act as earmuffs as you pound away at your keyboard. Music would just stress you out more, but you put your headphones on anyway, to ward off anyone else who dares speak to you. 

Tuesdays feel like the moment Sylvia Plath decides she's better off just sticking her head in an oven. 

Although the initial shock of your to-do list has subsided a bit, you still have more on your plate than you can handle. You're already beginning to imagine the weekend, but all you can discern is a very faint glimmer of light, too distant to seem real.

Whoopi Goldberg gives so few fucks that she farts on national television . Wednesdays are like Whoopi.

You're halfway through the week, so that's great but you're nowhere near where you need to be to meet all of your deadlines. You're so overwhelmed you decide the best thing to do is to spend approximately four hours eating an entire box of Thin Mints and updating all of your social media bios, naturally. You fit what work you can into the remainder of your day, but when five o'clock hits, your "fuck it" attitude really starts to take the wheel. It's almost the day before the good day, so, que ser fuckin' ra.

Everyone starts a juice cleanse the same. You're convinced you're going to look like Adriana Lima by week's end, and you're going to have the best bowel movements of your life—then 3 hours in, you feel like an Epsom sprinkled slug.

You're jazzed about it being just one day away from the weekend and proud of yourself for making it this far. Your day gets started with great intentions. You really barrel into your work (finally), but you're halted with the realization that you're nowhere near where you need to be. You strategize in your head to really plan out the remainder of the week. You're going to achieve all of your goals and prove to your boss that you're not useless. Around 3:00 you realize you've just squandered all your fucking time trying to figure out how to get things done and actually getting absolutely nothing done at all. You end up working late, crying in your cubicle.

New Years Eve is the holiday where you thinking you're going to experience the Great Gatsby party of your life, but actually end up hanging out in your friend Jerry from high school's parent's basement, playing circle of death (because they still play that game back home). Friday is exactly like New Years Eve.

You wake up feeling fan-fuckin-tastic and just nearly thin. You even dare putting on your almost-skinny jeans, because damnit, MAMA IS GOIN OUT TA-NIGHT. 

You strut into the office. Some fucker who's trying to ruin you brought in donuts, so of course you devour a long john like Kobayashi at Coney Island. Screw it—it's the WeEkEnD!! It's now 9:30 and you already have your skinny jeans unbuttoned. Like a dumbass, you wore a crop top, so you throw on your coat to cover the gut that's now flooding out of your open fly. Never mind that you're perspiring profusely and now smell like a chimichanga. 

Around three o'clock you start to wonder what everyone has going on tonight, however, texting your (two) friends doesn't happen until about an hour later. Uh oh, your two friends are out of town and your fallback friend is in the suburbs. Fuck. If only you hadn't alienated whats-her-face on Nickelback Day.

Of course, we all know the end to this day. You end up on your couch in pajamas at 8pm, binge eating the trifecta: Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Reduced Fat Rocky Road, and kettle corn Smart Pop (the 100 cal bags, but, of course, you pop 3).

Saturday is the day that, like Oprah, you plan your rise from the ashes of despair to the height of glamour. (Or, you try to.)

You're going to brush your teeth. You're going to shower AND wash your hair. You sweep up all of the popcorn from last night and wince a little at the shame. Now you've actually got some insight into your friend's lives and know who's available to hang. Only the fallback friend is free, but you'll take it. You try with all your might to hang onto this positivity, because if you don't, you'll end up right where you were last night. 

You begin readying yourself with some loud Top 40 jams. Yep, you're really soaring now. When you meet with your friend (only leaving her waiting 30 minutes), you look amazing. So glad you had to go out with your boring friend, because it reminds you how funny you are, even if she is way cuter than you. You have a couple drinks but aren't the slightest bit buzzed. When you come back from the bathroom, the guy you've been eyeing all night is hitting on your boner-jam friend. Feeling disappointed and a little insecure, you head home and leave your friend with the dude. What an OK night.

Sundays are like the scene from "The NeverEnding Story's" Swamp of Sadness. If you can keep your positive vibes from Saturday going through midday, you're in the clear. BUT, if even for a moment you let the idea of starting the workweek enter your brain, you are swallowed whole (slowly and painfully) by an all-consuming depression. In the latter situation, what likely unfolds is this:

You're so consumed with the anxiety of beginning the workweek that the mere idea of putting pants on is enough to make you saw off your own legs. So, of course, you do not put pants on. Instead, you wear your comforter all day long. You try to get some of your chores done, but that would mean putting down your blankie, which is actually your clothing for the day. All you manage to complete is watching the entire "Gilmore Girls" series (for the 17th time). You promise yourself you're going to get to bed extra early that night to start the week off right, but you ended up needing that time in order to polish off the series finale.