While I appreciate that most Sundays are days off from whatever else we have going on in life, I never could fully enjoy it, knowing that Monday was mere hours away. Chelsea Fagan gives an excellent explanation on why Sunday, ultimately, is evil.

There are those who often wax poetic about the comforting easiness of Sundays. There are songs about it, poems about it, and I’m sure even a book or two about it (aside from The Bible, which clearly doesn’t emphasize the carefree fun often associated with this seventh day). And while there are those who aim to market Sunday as the cherry on top of a week-long cake, I’m not falling victim to the calendar’s clever PR team. I’m aware of how mediocre, even depressing this day is, and I can’t recall one in recent memory that wasn’t at least somewhat marred by its unfortunate position between the Day of Drinking and The First Day of Work.

First things first, how many Sundays are spent hungover? And I’m talking about the kind that, when you wake up, immediately makes you question whether or not you actually died the night before of alcohol poisoning and are in some kind of purgatory, cleansing yourself with pain before you can join the Land of the Dead. These are the states of mind we often find ourselves on Sunday mornings, and there is no buffer day between us and the work week — we are going to have to spend the entire day recovering and eating Hot Fries just to get back to a semi-functional state for the drudgery ahead. It’s not like Saturday, where if you wake up and feel kind of iffy, you can recover over the day and still enjoy a fruitful weekend evening. If you are responsible enough with your Saturday evening after you come back to full life, you can even enjoy a fulfilling brunch the next day with all of your senses intact and your wits about you.

Read more on why Sundays suck over at Thought Catalog.