Rhetorical Analysis: The Dreaded, Awful Sunday Scaries


Cue the music.

I don’t know who this Amelia Diamond girl is but you best believe ya boy is ‘bout to find out. I feel like we just got a 100% match on OKCupid or something. Just vibing each other right off the bat and she doesn’t even know it yet . Only way to kick this love affair off is to rhetorically analyze the fuck out of what made me fall in love in the first place - her piece called The Dreaded, Awful Sunday Scaries. Per usual, original article is in italics.

Every Sunday evening around 9 PM — after I’ve eaten, showered and eaten again — it hits. My heart rate rises, my eyes sort of bug out of my face, then I get all twitchy and nervous and paranoid and worried. Scientists have studied this end-of-the-weekend phenomenon in great detail across various demographics*, and all have come to a single diagnosis: The Terrors.

Girl, stop it. I can’t tell if I’m sweating from my impending alcohol poisoning or because of how well you nailed it with the “all twitchy and nervous and paranoid and worried.” You’re just speaking my language and it’s making me feel like Pepe fuckin’ Le Pew.

To avoid any confusion, let’s first explore the different colloquial variations on this name. “Sunday Scaries,” for example, has permeated much of New England and the surrounding New York City suburbs. “Sunday Blues” can be found on the anxiety ridden tongues of those in the Midwest. I’ve heard West Coast adoptions of “The Sunday Shakes,” and come to think of it there’s a band named The Alabama Shakes — I wonder if they have a chronic case of Terrors and sing to soothe their restless beings.

Call it what you want, Amelia, but is it just me or are we vibing right now? I feel this New York-Sunday-Scaries attitude coming from your direction while I’m all Midwest-Sunday-Blues-kinda-vibin’ you.

But, in all seriousness, if my web traffic is any indication, the the East Coast crowd definitely uses the search term “Sunday Scaries” while the South seems to use “Sunday Blues”. As for “Sunday Shakes,” the only thing shaking is my Achy Breaky Heart for you, girl.

I had a Finnish friend who called this feeling “morkkis.” I may be butchering the spelling of that word** and if anyone can correct me please do, because no ones description of the horrible Terrors has come quite as close as her foreign word. What does it translate to?

“Fuck,” essentially.

Mouth of a sailor? Don’t hate it.

It’s said that this feeling of nervousness is often exasperated by weekend consumption of alcohol — sort of the hangover’s hangover, if you will. While that extra hair of the dog you decided to pluck at Sunday’s brunch probably didn’t help your case, I know first hand that The Terrors affect even the most sober of Sandras. The looming work week is enough to set anyone off into a fit of convulsions and nacho consumption. E-mails! Is there anything worse than an inbox of unreads? If you’re in school you might have a test you didn’t study for, or a presentation on some sort of solar system for which you forgot to make a diorama. All fodder for Sunday’s stress-a-thon.

I know firsthand that it doesn’t matter if you went on a Hunter S. Thompson-type bender or spent the entire weekend doing charity work with a Christian singles group. Scaries stop for no one and nacho cheese does normally ensue. And if you feel like taking a little time off from those e-mails, Amelia, just HMU here and we can get our conversation on.

But it’s not just the imminent Monday that freaks us out, it’s the weird shit we did Friday and Saturday: the evil call logs, the ominous ghosts of texts-past that we know we sent and then deleted (no evidence, never happened) and then remembered the next day but can’t quite remember exactly what we said. Was it “I hate you,” or worse, “I miss you,” or a misdirected “Where are you I just bought shots,” to whom you thought was your friend Caroline but is actually your boss named Carla? Oh good lord, get me out of my own brain.

Had this paragraph had gone on for one more sentence, I’d be outside Amelia’s apartment window screaming “AMELIAAAAAAAA" like the Night at the Roxbury guys. She straight up got my juices a-flowin’ there! You little heartbreaker, you. Scariest part is that I legitimately called a girl “Caroline” last weekend when it definitely wasn’t her name. If that’s not a sign that this is a match made in heaven, then slap my ass and call me single. We’re on some next-level Drake love song kind of shit right now, Amelia. Don’t deny.

The important thing to remember while rocking back and forth in fetal position after Homeland‘s credits begin to roll is that come Monday morning, things are usually okay. Life carries on. Tuesday happens. Then Wednesday, then Thursday, and I mean you once wore calendar undies so you know what comes next: Friday. And there’s no remedy for a scary Sunday quite like the beginning of a new weekend.

And here’s where we differ. I’m more of a Mad Men guy but I’ll consider making the switch. I’m not stranger to “give and take.” I understand that young love requires compromise.

Honestly though, my Scaries usually last until like Wednesday or Thursday. But don’t worry, I’m good to go on Fridays still. Can’t hold me down.

If you ever need a little help to get to get you through The Terrors, just remember that we’re here, probably biting our hair and avoiding something and wishing you’d hang out with us in the comments.

I’ll hang out with you in the comment section any day of the week. Shit, I’ll watch repeats of Girls on your DVR if you want me to.

(To my guy audience, I’m kidding. Girls sucks and I’d never watch it.)

(Just kidding, Amelia. I’d totally watch with you.)

(My bros, I’m not actually going to watch Girls! This is just one of those “Ohhh, I love The Notebook" type of situations.)

(No it’s not, Amelia. I think the phrase “bros over hoes” is completely offensive and chauvinistic.)

Last thing: what do you call The Sunday Terrors? And how do you cope with them? Please tell me, because laying upside down on the couch until all the blood rushes to my eyeballs just isn’t cutting it.

I’ll tell you what - next Sunday, I’ll come over with some throw blankets and Buffalo Chicken Dip and we can discuss the Sunday Scaries until the cows come home. We can listen to John Mayer and wake up simultaneously at 3am wondering why we are having work nightmares together. But then we’ll realize, we just get each other.

Also, did I mention I’m into redheads? Oh, your hair is red? What a world we live in.