I hate Sundays. Especially Sundays like this one. I slept too late, woke up to grey skies, Katsumi’s parked on the couch playing Fallout and the house is moderately trashed. Not the kind of trashed where you have to clean immediately or risk biohazard, but the kind of trashed that you can kind of politely ignore for a few hours until the mess has worked its way under your skin and driven you quietly insane.

So I went grocery shopping, first making a stop at the Starbucks on 1A. It seemed that everyone felt the same way about this Sunday – the cashier was one step away from brain-damaged, and almost everybody in Stop & Shop looked like they’d been injected with a zombie virus. I spent a hundred dollars on Blackstrap Molasses, jelly tea, and god knows what else, then took the long way home through Orient Heights.

Sundays are the day I used to go to church with my parents, to noon mass, sometimes making a stop at The Big Apple” for cheese and donuts. Sundays were the night I couldn’t go out and see friends. Sunday is the day I fly home from visiting my sister, Sunday is when I’m brutally hungover.

And bleak winter Sunday is NOT a good day to take a drive through the industrial section of East Boston and ponder all the reasons you hate Sunday. Because then you’ll wind up at home, on your cat-piss-smelling loveseat, blogging about Sunday while your husband plays Fallout. And that’s not really very fun at all.