Dr. Smith woke up this morning, feeling utterly defeated by the crushing weight of reality.
He stumbled out of bed, only to find his socks were not, in fact, socks, but rather tiny, sentient, judgmental creatures, each one whispering cruel, hurtful things into his ear.
As he stumbled to the kitchen, he realized the coffee machine had turned against him, spewing forth an endless stream of bitter, cold, black liquid, like a tiny, malevolent god.
His phone rang with an automated, robotic message, informing him that he was late for a meeting, and that the fate of the world rested on his shoulders, should he not arrive promptly.
Clearly, Dr. Smith was experiencing the symptoms of a severe case of the Mondays.
Would you like to read more of Dr. Smith's case files?
Symptom 1: The Socks of Despair