Wednesday.

It's the first day of fall break. You're excited. No class means doubles on doubles on doubles which means, as the kids say, fat stacks. Nothing can stop you and optimism drives you through your shift.

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Thursday.

Day 2. Wednesday was practice. Now you're in the zone. You're taking eight tables at a time. You're churning out more pizzas than a DiGiorno's robot. You're selling more clothes than a Chinese sweatshop owner. If your boss doesn't give you a raise in the next twenty minutes, you'll threaten to quit. When you're this much of an asset you can make demands like that.

You can tell your sanity is slowly slipping, but who cares when you're this productive?

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Friday.

Madness has consumed your soul. You've only worked two doubles this weekend and you're this exhausted. Dear god, you still have three more to go. Thoughts of work plague your mind. What do you do if someone wants buttered, pan seared anchovies on their extra large two topping pizza? How many times can you blame the kitchen for your screw ups? "Why can't I get the sound of a bar-code scanner out of my head?" you ask yourself.

Your shift drags on, and on, and on, and on. Yet somehow you make it through the day. Your friends ask you if you want to go out tonight, but all you can say is, "Would you like fries with that?"

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Saturday.

Fatigue induced insanity has given way to fatigue induced rage. How dare this fascist, communist, terrorist, corrupt, decadent organization use you this weekend? How dare your manager ask you to restock the medium cups. How dare that customer ask to substitute a baked potato for fries.

You contemplate burning the place down. Then you contemplate tweeting about burning the place down. Then you remember it's 2015 and that tweet would probably be taken seriously. You settle with going on a mass murdering rampage in "Grand Theft Auto" when you get home.

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Sunday.

Finally, the day has come. Just 10 more hours, and it's all over. You're free. Until next weekend. Still, the thought of five days off sounds like flirtations from Jesus. Throughout your shift, thoughts of what you'll do with all your free time in the upcoming week keep you going. Before you know it, the restaurant's closed.

You go back to your apartment. It's dilapidated, disgusting, and vile, much like the contents of your mind. Jimmy John's bags litter the floor and coffee table as you haven't had the energy to make dinner. The laundry you meant to get done this weekend is still sitting in the corner. Nothing's been added to it, you haven't changed out of your uniform all weekend long. The thought of responsibilities makes you sick to your stomach.

As you lay in bed all you can think about is work. What happens if a customer wants a baked potato on their nachos? Why don't we apply 15% off discounts to coupons? You realize none of your thoughts make sense. You realize this weekend has damaged your mind. It's broken you. But, hey, at least there's a big number next to the word "checking" in your bank account.

You traded your sanity for money. Congratulations, you're living the American dream.