Some Days You Should Just Stay Home

Some days are good. Some days start off like any other day, but before long, you know something special is going to happen. As you roll out of your apartment you spot a crisp $20 bill on the ground and bend down to pick it up. From behind you comes a tall, leggy Swedish-looking blonde too busy rushing to work to notice a human being in her path, and proceeds to spill her latte all over your shirt.

The shirt your mom gave you last Christmas that you hate, but you wear it because the rest of your clothes are standing up by themselves next to the washer. With the shirt completely ruined and consequently having a justifiable reason for throwing it away, the leggy blonde, named “something hot and Swedish sounding”, tells you she’ll repay you later that evening with dinner, and to meet her at her place beforehand, “shirt optional”, with a wink. Oh, it’s gonna be a good day.

Some days aren’t so good. Some days you walk home from work in the pouring rain to the nearest Starbucks, where the kid with beaucoup holes in his face decides that a “touch of milk” translates to “half a pint of cream” (I understand requesting a “touch” of anything is asking for it, but just work with me here). So you take your craptastic coffee and begin to make your way home, until some stupid kid on a skateboard flies up behind and knocks your coffee onto your favorite shirt, the custom shirt you picked up on holiday in Milan last year.

You finally get up to your apartment, only to walk in the door and find your gerbil, Richard Gere, dead in his cage. Distraught, you make your way back to your room, where your girlfriend has tripped while coming out of the shower and fallen naked onto your roommate’s member. Again. That bitch is just so damn clumsy. That’s a bad day.

So, um, these are the latter - the bad days.

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