The excitement of looking forward to the weekend has now passed, having taken along with it your money, brain cells, and a formerly dent-free ride.
Nothing left to do now but laundry and commiserate about the coming five days at work.
Wrong.
Just like Sir Edmund Hillary making his final push up Mt. Everest, you dig deep for that one last party push. It's in you, grind it out.
Somewhat subdued from a weekend of shots and the spasmodic activities following those shots, I opt for a mellow night out.
Bar North is the place.
For twenty bucks, you can get a decent bottle of house red and any one of a half dozen appetizer plates. We had the antipasto, followed by a thin crust pizza.
Another twenty bucks got us a second bottle and a small bowl of spaghetti and meatballs.
A third bottle would have left its mark the next morning. We called it good for this particular weekend. (Even with the dent).
Bar North on a Sunday night is a good way to forget there's a weeks worth of shit headed your way in less than 12 hours.
Some like to call it work.