Monthly Archives: July 2013

Why I don’t face Monday Morning Blues. Well, not every Monday at least.

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  • Because I can wear bathroom slippers to work.
  • Because the tshirt I am wearing right now says, “If you want a pretty nurse, you gotta be patient”. ¬†BTW I have a serious client meeting today.
  • Because while writing this line my feet are on my table and the regional head just went past me giving me a hard stare though he knows the behavior is incorrigible.
  • Because I have an intern at my disposal who writes body copy for me and makes coffee to die for.
  • Because I have more than 5-6 corporate slaves a.k.a managers a.k.a Client Servicing Executives I can pick on when I get bored.
  • Because God always gave enough courage to stalk my dream relentlessly despite everyone telling me where the scope is.
  • Because today while driving to work I heard my radio spot on air.
  • Because if anyone at work catches me wasting time on twitter I tell them it’s a great way to practice writing great headlines under 140 characters. It’s funny how they believe my convincing argument.
  • Because my water bottle looks like this:
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  • Because my desk looks like this:
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  • Because when you have a sense of humor you look forward to cracking new ‘Monday Morning Blues’ jokes every week. Ironically, they make everyone happy.

So stop cribbing, grab a cup of coffee and earn your Friday night parties and Saturday morning hangovers. Go now!

 

 

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If I die tonight, how would Sherlock Homes reach the conclusion that I was single.

The AC vents in my car, every single one of them, faces me.

The only missed calls I have are from my boss.

The bills in my drawer have the same order – ONE black coffee.

The prominent lines on my neck that I get from reading and blogging late nights.

The time sheet at my office that shows I am putting in extra hours.

The scent on my clothes is mine. Just mine.

The absence of purple spots on my neck, and thin red scratches on my back.

The overdose of alcohol in my blood.

The traces of nicotine on my fingertips.

The questionable internet search history.

The stress lines on my forehead.

The dark circles of insomnia.

The faded laugh lines.

The painful monologues in my journal.

The abstract melancholic doodles of crying jokers on my notepad.

The resilient smile on my face that I’ve put to conceal my emotions… it’s so fake that I’ll be smiling even after my demise.

“It’s elementary my Dr. Watson”, he says.

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