Your alarm clock hasn't gone off yet, because it's 3:28 am. The bird-feeder you so lovingly hung on the tree outside of your window has succeeded in enticing many exotic feathered friends to flock to your home, attracted by the expensive nut-and-seed blend that you bought last week at a local whole-food store. Instead of the "Coo, coo, coo"-ing you thought would pleasantly awaken you from your slumber at dawn, the birds by your window seem to scream their presence at you at every ungodly hour of the night. It's a constant "HEY LOOK! I'M A BIRD! I GO, TWEET TWEET TWEET TWEET ALL DAY LONG! I'M SOO HAPPY!" 24 hours a day. You may be four hours ahead of schedule, but you convince yourself that you are somewhat alert and coherent and slowly push the covers off of your reluctant body and get to work.
You're still half asleep as you plop your feet on the floor and onto a pointed, shiny metal object that leaves a love tap on your tender and unsuspecting foot. As you scream out in pain and grab your aching appendage, you trip over yourself and land on your funny bone. However, you don't laugh because you are shocked by the sudden realization that you can feel your heart beating in your elbow with impressive fervor.
After the throbbing subsides, you pull yourself up from the floor and grope your way into the kitchen. As you flick on the light, you realize that you left the dishwasher going all night, and have now waded into a pool of standing water that has corrupted the linoleum and successfully ruined your favorite slippers as well as your mood. But again, you decide that all is not lost, and grab a Nutri-grain bar as you step outside to feed the dog.
But alas, the dog is nowhere to be found. The open cage door hints that your loyal canine has flown the coop, while also uprooting your prize-winning rhododendrons. Oh, but don't worry...an enraged neighbor returns him five hours later, along with a note from their lawyer concerning the damage your pup did on their car tires.
You continue with your morning regimen by taking a shower. Things are going well until the shampoo bottle squirts you in the face. The soapy liquid burns your retinas until you are partially blind. You suddenly have a strong urge to gauge out your eyeballs with a spork. However, you realize that there is indeed a Visine for that, and you suck it up and go to work. It was much to painful to wear contacts, so you slip on your glasses from 5th grade and head out the door.
All would be lost except for your brief stop at McDonald's for your morning McCafe. You're placing your order when the cashier tosses you a flirty look through his big, bushy unibrow. You would have been totally flattered had he not looked like a cross between Bill Nye the Science Guy and the Count from Sesame Street.
You're sipping your iced java when BOOM! A shower of pebbles pelts your windshield on the highway from the huge 18-wheeler in front of you. It wouldn't have been a big deal, but you know that your car insurance payment has skyrocketed, and you simply can't afford to replace the windshield from your meager paycheck. In a fit of blind rage (also remember that you are still partially blind from the shower), you lay on your horn, which then causes the old woman to your left to swerve unsuspectingly into your lane and leave an impressively colorful scratch your silver four-door sedan. It would have been fair had her car suffered as well, but her 1956 Buick is as strong as an army tank, and the dent you left on her passenger's side pops back out into place like bread from a toaster.
Luckily, you have the attention span of a goldfish and are able to forget your troubles by the time you walk into work 32 minutes late. As you make your way to your 4 x 4 cubicle, you are called into your boss's office for a surprise inspection. Once inside, you are told that you would have received the annual bonuses that were handed out that morning, but your tardiness made them reconsider and therefore you are
You shrug it off until you learn that your five-year office crush (which you have harbored ever since the first-and-only office beach blowout in 2005 in which you saw the new intern shirtless) just got engaged to the blonde bimbo three cubicles down with the power-woman suit and the ridiculously high metabolic rate. You tell yourself that the massive rock on her finger is an "eyesore", and move on.
Your workday proves to be mundane and anything but noteworthy. At 5:05 you wheel your tarnished Sedan from the community parking garage and proceed to the gym. The endorphins will definitely help your mood. However, the traffic congestion puts you a good 15 minutes off schedule, a hefty amount considering you had to travel merely three blocks from the office to the gym. All of the elliptical machines are taken, so you decide to run the track to blow off some steam. In the middle of your fourth lap, you are reacquainted with your flesh wound from that morning, which begins to bleed relentlessly into your new Nikes. You continue to push yourself through the last lap towards the exit, and BAM! Leg cramp.
You hobble to the locker room and realize that not only had you neglected to lock the locker with your duffel bag, but all of the contents of your bag have been stolen (including your car keys). So you borrow someone's cell phone and get your sister to pick you up.
Your mundane existence gives way to a full-on battle for survival in the ongoing war against nature. The weather is against you. Animals hate you. You're pretty sure you have developed a severe case of scarlet fever that could very well be fatal. You are legitimately scared that you will die. Rocks pelt you from above, birds taunt you with their powers of flight, and cats hiss at you as you walk by. Every small setback escalates into a tidal wave of attacks from Mother Nature, who now apparently hates you. Your formerly arbitrary existence is now a highly unfortunate one in which you raise a shaking fist dramatically up to the sky and curse the heavens with every foul word you can think of as rain falls down on you.
You realize you have sunk to a new low when you begin to question all things American (including Chicken McNuggets and apple pie), and the song "Daydream Believer" enrages you so much that you want to take to the streets and revolt. How dare The Monkees flaunt their idle happiness when you are on the verge of destruction?? You will cheer up for NO ONE.
You have now spiraled into such a state that you have lost all use of your limbs, which flail about at your sides, as well as all concept of coherent language. Instead, you grunt like a caveman to everyone you meet.
By the time you get home, you long for nothing more than a long, hot bath. Sounds appetizing, doesn't it? Too bad you forgot to pay your water bill and your water has been turned off. You're pretty aggravated by this point--no water, no car, no bonus, no boyfriend, and an increasingly hostile leg cramp.
...
NOTE: Dear Daniel Powter, I suggest that you incorporate the preceding realistic circumstances into your song "Bad Day". You grossly underestimate the extent to which one can have a bad day...as the only truly bad things that happen in your song are losing the magic when you kick up some leaves, being unable to rekindle any passion in your life, and standing in line for some coffee. Those, my friend, are not bad. Inconvenient, yes, but not terrible. However, if you take a look at the hypothetical day listed above, you will realize just how bad a day can be. For, you see, no "sad song" is going to turn your day around.
xoxo e
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