i have always agreed with the phrase "no use crying over spilled milk". don't get me wrong, i love my cow juice as much as the next milkaholic, but it is only milk. crying over it is a little dramatic. there's another carton in the back fridge. however, if there was a phrase closer along the lines of "no use crying over having quite possibly the worst day of your life when literally everything goes horribly wrong", i would have to wholeheartedly disagree. in this case, there is definitely use for crying. and not just crying, but sobbing like a small child who has just been verbally abused by the scary 6th grader, then slapped in the face, and then pushed down the tallest slide on the playground.
have you ever told yourself you were going to have a good day? you wake up, sigh with a smile, and say "today will be marvelous". well, don't. don't ever do that. confidence is the recipe for complete turmoil. i'm just kidding, don't quote me on that. but giving yourself so much (usually false) hope is just asking life to challenge you. luckily, i'm always up for a challenge. unluckily, i don't take challenges lightly.
right on schedule at about 9:00am, my phone's alarm begins to chirp. i reach over to turn it off, already in a good mood, ready for the day ahead of me. what's more exciting than the week before school gets out for break? i'll admit that being front row at a goo goo dolls concert or owning the world's largest chocolate bar would come really close, but just about nothing beats it at the moment. i slide off the side of my bed, slip into my dangerously comfortable moccasins, and walk down to the cafeteria to grab some coffee. "ah, some cream and some sugar." perfect. as i struggle to put on the lid, someone calls my name from across the kitchen. i turn to greet them, being the incredibly nice person i am (don't comment). at that moment i felt the lava of my latte seep into my pants. i throw my cup, which splattered the rest of my boiling coffee onto the wall, and am seconds away from ripping off my pants in the middle of the marketplace. "AWESOME." i think aloud. an older woman, bless her heart, cleaned the wall for me and said not to worry about it. i smiled and thanked her, when inside i was fantasizing about how much joy ripping each coffee-maker out of the wall and shot putting them across campus would bring me.
stained and pissed, i make it to my room and stop at the sink to brush my teeth. i spend a few minutes searching for my toothbrush, and finally find it in the wrong compartment of my shelves. i add toothpaste, run some water over the bristles, and begin scrubbing; scrubbing away the germs of morning as well as whatever dark secrets i had let slip out in my sleep last night. after a moment i realize something was not right. i spit, expecting the worst. a clump of blonde hair plops into the sink. i am not grossed out by much. in fact, i am not grossed out by almost anything. that being said, i almost puked. i rinse out my mouth, clean my toothbrush extra well, and place it in its correct place, not near my hairbrush where it had been thrown before. "okay, that doesn't damper my day. i'm good."
i walk to my backpack and start loading in my materials for class. my stomach sinks. the fact that my 10:00am journalism class had been moved to 9:00am because we had a test had slipped my mind a little. i could almost feel life punching me in the face. "haha, you thought you'd have a good day? i don't think so." i threw my shit in my backpack, tripped over the rug, and bolted out the door. although i felt like usain bolt in the 100m dash, dodging people and cutting off angry drivers, i'm fairly confident i looked like a haggard little frosh who was trying to reinvent the walk of shame into the run-as-fast-as-you-possibly-can of shame. right as i hit my full stride, i hear a distancing yell. i turn around. the majority of my backpack's contents are strewn across my very recent path. i don't cry very often, and if it weren't for the attractive kid who started picking up my stuff, i probably would have fallen to the ground and began bawling dramatically, followed by throwing a childish temper tantrum. this zac efron look-alike needed to see me with some dignity though, so i restrained. i thank him, not even having enough time and patience to give him a nice smile and possibly dish him a witty comment about my wonderful morning.
moments later, i throw open the door to room 202, exhausted and gasping for air. did i make a scene? of course i did. i power walk to my teacher, apologize probably 12 times, and plead to still be able to take the test, almost in tears. of course a room of teenagers is going to stop what they're doing to watch the mess of the blonde chick who just disrupted the entire class. my teacher allows me to use the remainder of class time to take the test i had actually studied for. i looked at the clock. i had 20 minutes. perfect. the first 25 questions were easy; flew through them while envisioning a big "A" at the top of my paper. what a joke. i look at the clock; 5 minutes to finish 20 more questions. "at least these questions are easy!" um haha? definitely not. 18 out of those 20 questions were complete guesses, the ticking hand's clicks feeling like a hammer to my temple with every second. "time's up." i sigh too dramatically, and pass up my could've-been-an-A-but-then-again-probably-not test.
"all right, well that sucked." my next class is at 1:00, and i have a test in that one too. of course. the only thing that would make me feel better after failing one test would be to go take another one right after. i stop by the student union to grab some food. i pay for my salad and soup, and make my way to the doors. i was in a rush, with limited time to study for my next test. the south is a very hospitable place, but of course the only time a boy didn't hold open a door for me had to happen now. i switch off holding all my things in order to push open the door, dropping my drink in the process. it explodes across the tiles. i literally want to just drop the rest of my stuff, throw my backpack at the nearest person, run out of the building, and go live in a forest for the rest of the week. that plan being immature, unrealistic, and just really weird, i managed to hold my composure. a janitor begins to mop my mess, i apologize, and i finally make it out the door.
i hear a voice coming from a megaphone. at first it almost sounded like God himself roaring down at me "thou shall be punished for trying to have a successful and rewarding day". but no, it was just the club fair's president saying something about sign-up sheets. making my way through all the booths, i was just about ready to overturn the next person's table who tried to get me to be on their e-mail list. not really paying attention to where my feet are, i catch the side of someone's parked bike with my foot. i trip (of course), but i catch myself. but not on a table or a booth; i catch myself on a very built, very hot football player. he turns around and chuckles at the little white girl who he thinks just tried to cop a feel. sidenote: i copped one ;) but anyways, i turn to watch the bike i tripped over slowly fall into the next bike, and the next bike, and the 9 or so bikes after that. the music stops, the talking stops, and to my dismay, the annoying megaphone man does not. "AHH THE BIKES. EVERYONE HELP PICK UP THE BIKES." i'm not one who craves attention. in fact, i don't really like attention at all. but right now, i felt like an attention whore; an unintentional, unwilling, and miserable attention whore. i now realized why regular whores have such low self-worth. being any kind of whore is not a good feeling, i'll tell you that. i don't know how whores do it. go whores! so the bikes are picked back up, and i use every ounce of self-control to calmly walk away instead of hide my face and sprint balls to the wall.
finally back in my dorm room, i spend the next couple of hours studying. i am beyond stressed because i realized i had lent my notes to a friend and never got them back. trying to mentally block out my roommate's eagerness for conversation, i do my best to prepare.
walking to class, i engage in conversation with my friend, and i am immediately punished. i slip on a loose rock on the sidewalk and gash my ankle. "damnit that hurt. but at least it's not bleeding!" blood begins to pour out of my fresh cut as soon as i finish my jinxed thought. i make it into my classroom, on time and quite frankly surprised i have lasted this long without slitting my throat. i start my test. confident. i look down at the ground, trying to remember which amendment freed the slaves (it's the 13th in case it was bugging you). to my not surprise, i had forgotten about my foot; half dry, half still going strong. life was definitely attacking me in the form of my own blood. whatever. i had to focus. "okay, number 46. now where was i--why am i only on number 43 on my scantron?"....i sit there staring in disbelief, i almost want to laugh at how this is even happening. i drop my pencil, slump into my seat, and hold up an imaginary white flag in my head, my pool of blood probably engulfing my neighbor's backpack by now. i don't even care anymore. walking back to my dorm room i feel unsafe about what else was bound to happen to me today, yet i totally didn't give a shit. at this point, i'm just waiting for someone to throw an old burrito out their car window and hit me in the face, or for some huge dude to come up and tackle me into the ground as hard as he could for no apparent reason; and i would just lie there and never get up again, because that's just me.
the night is already underway, and due to the fact that i was physically and emotionally exhausted, as well as the fact that i could count the potential parties i could go to on 0 fingers, i decided i'd stay in. i had laundry to do anyways, it's cool. an hour and a half went by, and i was officially spending my friday night folding clothes and watching bridesmaids for the 2315th time. i'm not quite sure what success feels like, but i'm pretty sure this was not it. hey, go big or go home i always say. "*sigh* clothes are cleann and all put awayy. now let me slip into my favorite fuzzy green soc--where the HELL are my fuzzy green socks." all right, life had had enough pleasure of slowly killing me for the day. i storm down to the laundry room, first calmly looking for my items that i could have simply just misplaced. then i began scoping out every dryer and laundry basket in the room, expecting to find a bin owned by some weirdo who steals girls' socks in order to satiate an unhealthy fetish. no luck. then again, was i expecting to have any luck? god damnit. of all the things that could have continued to go wrong, it just had to be my fuzzy green socks. i get back to my room, metaphorically give the day the finger, and go to sleep.
to say i had a bad day would be the understatement of the century. they say whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger. but to be honest, being shat on by life so many times over the course of 24 hours does not make me feel stronger in any way. so i guess we can just add that to the list of controversial phrases about life lessons.
p.s. i realize this post isn't a happy one. therefore, i hope you at least find joy in me suffering. so i leave you with this: although life can be a total douche bag sometimes, don't let anything hold you back! we are all stars, and we are all beautiful! spread your wings! <3 (along with any other gay cliche quotes you think will make discouraged people feel special and shit).
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