What a bad day. Funny the way you know sometimes, before unclosing an eye, that the day’s got nothing good in store for you whatsoever. Your car might fail to start, for instance. You might burn your tongue on hot coffee. The dog could run off, or the cat—or a husband, I suppose, though a catastrophe like that would seem to warrant a more vivid descriptor than the run-of-the-mill bad day like I’ve had, where you just feel sad and hurt and kind of mopey, as if the day has fallen victim to a tepid curse.
At lunchtime, I opened my journal to find my daily prompt: What’s one happy memory from the day? Which is just mockery, really, when you’re truly settled into a funk. I mean, there are still adorable kids around me at the clinic, and one of them always comes in wearing a sweater vest and button-down like an undersized 80’s dad. What’s not to love, I know. Still, when you’re enjoying the pall it seems a shame to become besotted by little girls in tutus, and neon eyeglasses, and tee-shirts adorned with sequined unicorns and cursive affirmations. And then there are the ongoing pranks between a therapist and one of the kids, the latest episode being a pair of sneakers hung by their laces high up on the wall to counter a handful of plastic dinosaurs dropped into a glass of drinking water. The Prankstinator strikes again!
Fucking hell, these kids.
Who’s fucking up your shitty mood?