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My Day by Ray Printer Friendly

So here we are again. I had a rat bastard of a day, and I canít decide if I want to stay up late drinking and writing, or just call it a night before my computer blows up in my face or something.

I know I have no business bitching and moaning about things, especially since I didnít have to go to a job like so many of you do. But when a dayís shit, a dayís shit, no matter what youíre doing.

It started out okay, up at four forty-five, getting breakfast made for my princess, because thatís the kind of day I was going to haveóI was going to be on the ball, baby! On the freakiní ball! I realize at once that I have nothing to pack her for lunch. Sheís been making her lunch this entire week, while Iíve been sleeping in. Like I said, though, today was my day to shine. I scrapped together a lunch for her, kind ofólike the worst lunch ever. A cheese sandwich and a bag of carrots, and a Coke. And I wasnít making the sandwich right, so she had to take over.

Iím usually good at this kind of thing, you know? Not this morning, though. I could tell that I was off my game, but I was thinking that with a few cups of coffee, I could get my head back in it, right?

I had stuff to do today, was the thing. Errands, chores, whatever. Laundry, dishes, close a checking account that I no longer use, cancel a credit card that got paid off, pick up some medicine, stuff like that.

I drop my princess off at work, this is around 6:30 this morning. And as I pull out onto the highway, Iím suddenly surrounded by traffic. I take her to work all the time, and I have never seen traffic this early. And we arenít talking about a little bit of traffic; weíre talking the full-out, traffic-jams-and-deadly-accidents-are-made-of-this kind of traffic. People swerving around, acting like jackasses, driving with their bright lights on. Itís like they just imported a bunch of dildos into the Austin area or something. Apparently the old batch all killed themselves off in car accidents.

When we first moved down here, I felt bad when I saw someone in an accident. Now, I just think that at least theyíre taking themselves out of the game for a bit: ďWell, at least thereís one asshole that wonít be crashing into me this morning.Ē

I get safely back to my apartment, start the dishwasher, and load up laundry. I notice a button that says ďHeated Dry.Ē One thing that I hate is when Iím unloading the dishwasher and I grab a pan and it dumps water all over my socks, so I figured I would give this ďHeated DryĒ thing a shot. I clicked the switch to the ďOnĒ position and proceeded to the ďClothing Care Center.Ē

ďClothing Care CenterĒ is what my apartment calls four washers and four dryers lined up in this little building on the other side of the complex. In theory, you can do your laundry there. In reality, if there arenít nests of wasps to chase you away, thereís either some jackass with his twenty unleashed dogs hanging out in there, or all of the washers are filled with damp menís underwear that may or may not have been washed.

If you go early enough, though, itís usually not a problem. Which is why I was going early. What I hadnít planned on was the state of the Care Center. One of the washers was half-filled (see, Iím a fuckiní optimist, I donít care what you guys say) with brownish water and just sitting there. I donít even want to think about how that came to be. It was like that when I was in the Care Center last time, too, which was something like four weeks ago, but I was actually hoping that it would be fixed by now.

I also noticed that one of the dryers had a sign on it that announced it was out of order. Which is too bad, because thereís another one in there that already doesnít workóno sign on that one, because it actually turns on, but it doesnít ever dry anything.

So Iím down to two dryers and three washersÖand one of the washers is filled with trash, like someone washed a pair of pants with a sheaf of paper hidden away in the pockets. After peeling the paper from the inside of the washer, Iím ready to go. Dump my clothes in, do my thing, whatever. Fast forward to when Iím taking my laundry back home, because this story is already getting out of control. Iíve had to leave one load, because the dryer it was in has bitten the dust, leaving the apartment complex ďClothing Care CenterĒ with one working dryer.

I walk in, and immediately smell itóburning plastic. I panic, because itís Christmas season, and I live in an apartment complex. Some asshole let his tree burn up, and now everybodyís shit gets burned up. But then I realize that itís coming from my dishwasher.

What? How can this be? I open the door, smoke pours out at me. Itís that heat dry thing. Basically what that means, I discover, is that thereís this huge heating element on the bottom of the dishwasher, and it dries the dishes. In theory. In real life, a plastic cup has managed to fall through the holes in the dish rack, and is melting on the heating element.

I grab the cup, hoping to pull it out before the problem becomes worse, and my face is instantly covered with strands of lava-hot melted plastic. I canít even scream like a little girl, because I donít want it to get in my mouth. I throw it into the sink and begin pulling the shit off my face, I hear things hissing, and thereís smoke and the stench of burned plastic all over.

I open the doors, turn on the fans, and fold the laundry. And then itís time to go back and get the next load. Itís around eleven oíclock by this time, so people are out and about, racing through my parking lot like itís a test course for get-away drivers.

I get the laundry, get it folded, and get showered. My house smells like shit, by the way, because two of my neighbors have moved out recently, which means that there are cleaners and painters and stuff all around. Which means that the workmen sit around right outside my apartment, smoking cigarettes, running generators, air compressors, whatever. Between the smoke from all of their shit and the smoke from my dishwasher catching my dishes on fire, itís amazing that I can even breathe without catching a buzz. Instead, I get a wicked headache. I sit down on the bed for a second, and wake up two hours later. Freakiní naps, manóthey can really sneak up on you when youíre being poisoned by carbon monoxide.

Okay, so time to get rolling. I go to get the drugs, only to be told that they are out of the drugs, and I will have to go to the drugstore on the other side of town, and that I have to wait until after five oíclock to do it. I hit the ATM, but itís out of service, so I have to go to the drive-thru, which actually went a lot smoother than I thought it would.

To the bank, to close my account. Eight guys standing around when I walk in, all dressed in suits, and all wearing baby-blue shirts. Creepy. They turn and stare at me, and Iím wondering if Iím about to be turned into one of them. Like corporate zombies, or something, only instead of biting me, theyíll, I donít know, give me a tie or something.

One of the guys comes over, and I tell him that I need to close an account. He looks shocked and hurt, like I just told him about how I like to go over to his house when heís at work, screw his wife, and then use his dinnerware to perform obscene things with the dog. I mean, I donít do anything of those things, but someone could be doing it, and I bet thatís what the bank guy would look like if he found out. You hear that Kevin? SOMEONE COULD BE DOING THOSE THINGS! With your wifeÖand your dogÖand your plates. And you eat off of those plates, you filthy bastard.

Anyways, so even though itís a nationwide bankóChaseóthey tell me that I canít close the account here. See, I opened it while I was living in NYC. So he tells me that Iím going to have to go back to that bank to close my account!

Oh, Kevin, you have made an enemy today, and so have all your weird little clones. Iím going back in on Monday, Iím withdrawing all of my funds, and Iím making those dickheads close my account. I didnít want to deal with it today, what with my track record for the day, but Iíll be back. Mark my words.

Mark Ďem, I said.

You know what? Donít. Donít even worry about marking them. I might not even go back inóIím pretty lazy, and I really hate going into banks.

Anyways, there was more to this crappy day than thatóalmost getting hit eleven times by mini-vans, the homeless guy that pointed his crutch at me and yelled while I was stuck at a red light, my shirt whipping up in the wind while I was getting into my car, exposing my ass crack to all the chicks outside the bankóbut I doubt you care. In fact, Iím surprised you read this far. I feel like I should give you a candy bar or something.

Iím not going to, though.


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