My day? Shitty, thanks for asking!

I had a shitty day today. Not one of those broke two
limbs, went bankrupt, and found out that all my friends
secretly hate me sort of shitty days, mind you. I wasn’t
that unlucky. Instead, I had one of those shitty days
that creeps up on you. It begun with a discreet under-
current of malaise, followed by a steady accumulation
of boredom, which eventually gave way to full-scale
gloom and angst. By around eight in the evening, I
finally understood what I was dealing with: a shitty
day in full bloom. Everything around me seemed
more annoying, more dire. The phone rang with a
horrible shriek, strangers and their strangery ways
pissed me off so much that couldn’t help but suspect
that the problem was with me. Foods tasted unsatisfy-
ing and the diversions I would normally pursue to
cheer myself up seemed futile and self-deceptive. I was
in a funk, the sort of mood that would lead the younger
me into a full-on brooding session. Now that I’m a
mature adult, however, moping and listening to the
Cure strikes me as distasteful. I couldn’t do it. I had
to brazen my way through my shitty day with a stiff
upper lip. When people asked me how I was doing, I
told them “Fine!” with a firmness that left no room for
questions. When people tried to joke with me, I joked
back. Lamely, but I tried. I think I did a pretty good
job. I don’t have shitty days all that often, so I’m sort
of rusty on how to handle them.

Maybe I should’ve written another story about the
President of the United States. This one, I remember,
made me pretty happy for awhile. Upon reading it
again, though, I realize that this might be part of the
problem.