Bad

Today was bad. B. A. D. Bad.

I woke up grumpy, tired, and in pain. Last night, before the gig at The Ringside, I accidentally (because, what kind of sick fuck would do this on purpose) closed my right-hand index finger in the garage door. I can't even begin to describe the pain. I don't quite know how the hell it happened, but, I'm thinking perhaps I may be a bit retarded. It's one of those old school, heavy wooden doors, and as I let it drop, I went to grab the handle to slow its descent, so it wouldn't slam closed. I missed. Somehow (again, I blame mild retardation), my finger ended up between two of the panels, and the door came crashing down, squishing my finger like a fucking, umm..., well, like something that gets squished. I don't know. I can't come up with a decent metaphor right now. Fuck it.

Anyway, it hurt like a motherfucker. I screamed like a bitch, and had to lift the door back up to release my poor, poor finger. Thank God it was cold out, so I'm pretty sure my neighbors had their windows closed, preventing them from hearing a grown man weep like a 9-year-old girl who has just been informed that N'Sync broke up. Of all my fingers, my right-hand index is probably the most important one. Besides being my preferred choice for effective nose picking, it's my main "bass finger." It does most of the work. Now, it was "all swole up," and I had to go play the gig. The fucking thing still hurts. Fuckshitpiss.

So, sore finger: check.

I also got very little sleep last night, since after the gig I went somewhere other than home. None of your business, tosspots. I got home around five a.m., and still had to carry my gear inside and wash up (I'm all sorts of hygienic) before going to bed.

Very little sleep: check.

I just really didn't feel like going to work. I never (well, hardly ever) call out, and I only work for five hours on Mondays (yes, you have every reason to envy me), so I figured I'd ditch. No such luck. My boss informed me that not only did he have no one around to cover for me, we had a big catering order I had to handle. Fuckbeans.

No way to ditch work: check.

I dragged myself to work, muttering and cursing. Upon arriving, I discovered that the douchebag that drove the work truck on Sunday had switched the radio to AM. The thing is, the truck radio is a broken piece of shit, with only two station preset buttons still functional. Also, the FM/AM button is broken. This fucktard had found a way to switch the radio to AM so he could listen to the previous night's Yankee game. I tried to use a pen to poke around the pushed-in button, to no avail. I fucking HATE AM radio! I need my WFMU (91.1 FM, the greatest radio station ever) to get through the day. I had no time to fuck with the radio any further, since I had to deliver the big-ass catering order.

Shitty AM radio: check.

The catering order was a two trip deal to Pequannock. We go to them every two or three weeks, and they only usually tip a dollar or two. Cheap fuckers, but at least I know what I'm dealing with. Not this time. No. This time, my friends, they stiffed me. Two trips, an hour of my life, and no tip. I was in such a shitty mood, I couldn't even process the moment. I knew that if I spoke up at all, I would most likely unleash a torrent of curses so creative, bombastic, and profane that society itself might crumble under the weight of my rage. Or something. Mentally placing a pox on everyone in the building (including everyone within a three-mile radius of the building), I drove off, trying desperately to find something to listen to on AM radio that didn't make me want to shoot myself in the face.*

No tip: check.

At this point, I was so pissed off that I decided to perform impromptu surgery on the truck radio. This consisted of me punching the radio face with my right fist (You know, the hand with the "ouchie finger?" Yet another sign of retardation.) until I cracked the radio housing, allowing me to pull out the broken FM/AM button. I then used a pen to press the tiny, little area that switches the signal back to glorious FM. Success! Success, and an even more damaged right hand.

Swollen knuckles to go along with a swollen finger: check.

Here's the funny part. At lunch, I sit down with the paper and read my horoscope. I don't actually believe in astrology, but what the fuck, right? Here is my strangely appropriate horoscope for today:

"Aries- Not even an Aries can expect to be happy all the time, so don't feel too bad if the week begins on a rather low-key note. Life always moves in cycles and if you are on the down slope at the moment, you can be sure you will be on the up slope later- it is simply a matter of being patient and waiting for your chance."

Weird, ain't it?

The rest of my day was pretty average. I got home and tried to take a nap, to no avail. I just couldn't sleep. Jacquie called me around 8pm to inform me that all of our "Drinky Friends" were at The Grasshopper, watching the Yankee game. I decided to go out and grab a beer and a burger. There were a bunch of "my people" there, and it's always a good feeling when you walk in a room and everyone is happy to see you. It was all handshakes and hugs. I figured my Bad Day was over. Silly me.

The Yankees lost. Honestly, I don't give a shit. I don't follow any professional sports, and all my friends know it. The thing is, it seemed like as soon as I got to the bar, the Sox caught up. The game was tied up, and someone made a joke that I must be bad luck. We all laughed, and had a round of shots. Then, the Yankees lost. No laughs. "No joy in Mudville," indeed. It was then decided that it was all my fault. MY fault! Their logic was that since I don't care about The Yankees, and never really even watch baseball, I was bad luck. The superstitious fuckers went so far as to ask me to please stay home tomorrow night to assure a Yankee win! I've been rejected by my peer group. I honestly wasn't planning on going out to watch the game there tomorrow night, but now I just might. I'm a bit of a wiseass that way. I'm a bit of a wiseass in a lot of ways. Then again, some of these clowns take their Yankee Baseball VERY seriously, and I might be inviting personal bodily harm if I show up and the Yanks lose again. I believe I'll stay in tomorrow night.

There you have it. My Bad Day.

In retrospect, it wasn't really too Bad, bad, or even "bad." I just felt like typing about it. And you read it. The whole thing. Don't you have anything better to do? Get back to work, slacker.


*stolen from K.B. I just like that line. Kind of like "Get me the big knife, I'm gonna kill myself!" Whoever comments on this post and correctly identifies what movie that line is from will win...something. Jacquie is excluded, because I know that she knows the answer.