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Sometime between 3 and 10 PM today, when I lost a number of files from the network drive due to a .zip virus called mydoom, when the resident registered sex offender at the House of Pain invaded my personal space for a full half hour and I was too much of a wuss to say DUDE, BACK THE FUCK OFF, when the power went out hosing up my computer and all I had open at the time, when Capital One called to inform me I was officially in collection, when Theo The Genetically Inferior Pup revealed some hideous oozing skin lesion that will require expensive veterinary care first thing in the AM, when the migraine became visual and streaks of white hot light crowded out my peripheral vision, when the furnace died and we suddenly became without heat, and when my dear husband happened upon the passport photo I'm using for my oh-so-official Guardian ad Litem badge saying, "Honey, you look old!" . . .

Sometime between 3 and 10 PM today I was speaking to a friend via IM about The Day from Hell and mentioned that if I was able to type those words in a scary Dracula font, that maybe, just maybe, he could begin to understand the kind of day it was.

Oh, how the Internet obliges at times like these.

See the red? See the blood? Fell the pain!

Every now and then a day comes along that just won't let you catch a break--no matter how positively you try to look at it. Oh, I could make an Oprah list and be thankful I still have my arms and legs, my liver, my spleen, gums that don't bleed, and a functional digestive system, but that's not going to cut it. This is a day made for hard liquor and a pack of cigarettes. This is a day made for elaborate plans that involve dousing myself in gasoline and triumphantly lighting my naked body on fire at the foot of The Sphinx. That is if I could manage get myself to Egypt before the suicidal thoughts wore off, while simultaneously overcoming my extreme shyness. Neither of which is likely considering I'm now trading this week's groceries for canine antibiotics and still undressing with the lights off. 

Oh holy hell. Even if I wanted to I wouldn't be able to end my miserable existence in a spectacular fashion because that costs money. It's expensive to throw yourself off the Eiffel Tower or blow yourself up in Times Square when you have to purchase a ticket. Not to mention how the entire self-serving event would more than likely be erroneously turned away from my narcissistic attempt to tell the world all suffering is about ME ME ME, to some subversive terrorist plot. (LINK TO CLOG WEARING FL DORK AND AL-QUAEDA SOUGHT)  

In Gainesville? I suppose I could try that auto-erotic asphyxiation thing, or maybe listen to Sister Hazel until I bleed to death from my ears. But really, while it might feel good for 30-50 seconds, where's the "spectacular" in that?