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My back is sore from running, my body tingles with the last bits of my weekend, and Marie just turned on the space heater. “Can you do me a favor,” I ask her.

“Hmm?” she asks, poking up.

“Can you please get me a tums,” I ask, feeling the deep, acrid shudder that tells me my stomach did not love the food. The engine rejects the fuel. This tums (bargain brand) in my mouth is very chalky & minty & clinical. This is the type of candy you imagine a doctor might hand you 45 years ago. Who’s to say?

It was another Sunday. You know? Another day. This writing about it doesn’t make it anything else. Does my acknowledgement that it is a Sunday what makes it a Sunday? Or is Sunday itself naturally? Sunday is not universal. It’s fucking whatever. I have no words for Sunday. I’m tired of it feeling like starting over the next day. That’s not Sunday’s fault, but we’re all ok to perpetrate its stigma.

Weekends mean nothing. Is a weekend a week’s end (Saturday & Sunday)? Or is it time off from the week? Do we fear Sunday because it’s such a last bastion—such a way to escape normality & its surprisingly capable ways of persuasion?

Give me Sundays, then. I’ll take them. No one cares, but I’ll take them.

Love you dad, daughter, wife, mom, cat, sister



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