Living in 2014 meant giving the finger to a bunch of things, like Monsanto, or Mondays, which, compared to the pink-iced-cream-feeling of a Friday, were as useful as a cactus costume in preschool. Life had become like that: The name of each day actually made people feel things. If you said “Monday,” in a Friday night bar, you could get kicked out, like an old plant thrown to the curb, as though Monday was the reminder of some touchy, half-forgotten war. Saying, “Friday,” on a Monday, however, brought tired colleagues to act like tigers, to smile and boast of their previous Fridays, and to discuss the one that was looming, whispering plans, and orchestrating meet-ups.
Of course, some were unfazed by the words, and, like indifferent cats, were often funemployed or retired, avoiding the roller coaster of stress and joy within every Monday to Friday… but how much fun was it to stand around on a skateboard… Well, you could do a lot of things without the need to spend hours of your life in an institution: You could call up a friend, pick up a bottle, dress like a unicorn.
As an outlier to the use of the words, you were baffled how a word could bring so much solidarity between people, and excuse anything.
Someone pissed themselves at work, got caught, and said, it’s Mondaaaay! to roaring applause.
That was really the thing: our hours, and days, had become named, and defined, to the point that they actually sparked reactions in our bodies, as though our bodies were the ones wired to those games of Operation. Capitalism had implanted metal in our flesh. Our hours, limited, went to the greater goals of the oligarchy: to pay for flights. That 0.1%, the plastic monarchy of our time, drank like it was Friday on Mondays, dressed like it was Saturday on a Tuesday, and slept through their Wednesday, thinking of Sundays, working to forget about the genocide that had permitted their wealth, and all of our bananas. Metal rusts.
And thus we, the ants, worked, with aspirations of a Friday, sold, our revolutions held back by the triple bars of an M. Our ideas of a society for personal happiness sliding off the descender of the y, forced to find meaning between creases of the o, n, d, and a, striving for life, police colluding with banks, women contained by the media, until someone, like Mr. Shakur, or miss hooks, came along, and told us of lines, sentence structures, paragraphs. They told us of editors.
word by Liam Lachance
colour by Akvile Magicdust