The only thing worse than watching others get excited over the plebeian offering of one extra day off out of the week is hearing them talk about what they did with it upon returning to their cell on Tuesday. Usually, it’s some slop about how they went to the beach or managed to finagle a “getaway” at someone’s “other home,” which tends to mean they went in on a group Airbnb.
So while you sit there trying not to broach the subject of how you did absolutely nothing (not that they’ll delve too deep into your life considering they would all rather talk about themselves), they’ll prattle on about the momentary good life they experienced as you sift through filler emails about how the mail room was closed on Monday even though you weren’t even fucking there. In fact, you’re not even fucking there right now; you’re just a body that’s learned to astrally project out of it.