The Worst Day everrrrr

This day sucks so royally bad. It was like a pool-shark's effect of ricocheting bad-news balls. The terrible events of October 19 ran like an obituary of a cursed (wo)man's life. Somewhere in Haiti there's is a pissed voo-doo witch sticking pins into a corn-husk doll that must look exactly like me. I woke up with a teeny, fetal hangover to nurse, but nothing an iced skim latte couldn't render. I returned 3 movies and the shy, seemingly nice counter girl scolded me for bringing them to the front counter when there's a perfectly good drop off box located at the front of the store. Then I skulked back home to find an e-mail awaiting about this trade/craft/livelihood/métier I interviewed for the day before (when they shook my hand and congratulated me on the gig) telling me that, upon further investigation of their agenda, they now find that they are, indeed, full up. So I moon a little. Hours pass. And then I get my mail. A credit card account I closed six months ago found a hidden accidental credit (from March!) and I owe them $200.00. Of course, Me: Glutton, I call them and get transferred to people other than inmates at the womens's prison, perhaps their supervisors, and Clayton (a homo) and I throw down. Who do you think won? Clayton did. So I have to mail the Bank of America (SHAM! FRAUD! SCAMMERS!!) $200 bones I'll probably have to prostitute myself out to earn. After all this ranting, I'm pretty hungry, so I walk to Whole Foods and pick me up some dinner where I'm waiting in line to pay, and just like out of a movie, this little kid was laughing and playing with his mother in the cart, looks over to me and sticks his tongue out at me, but goes back to his mother and pretends like he didn't do anything. It was really like he knew what kind of a day I was having and wanted to twist the knife in a little harder, with his precocious little eraser pink f-ing tongue. I go home and my sister (who's apartment I'm staying at, for $600 a month, on a broken, spring-poking couch in a 10 X 10 room that is the go between every room) and she tells me to f'ing "straighten up my area." And then we get into it: I go, "I hate it here." She goes, "Then leave." And I go, "Maybe I will!" She goes, "You should!" And on and on. Then I go to the movies, hoping I'll catch something in time, anything, and what's on? The Halle Barry movie about how her husband dies and she takes care of his heroine-addicted best friend. Sunny, uplifting. On the way to the movie, however, I pick up a sugarless chocolate at a health food store. When I stand up to leave the movie, poo tries exiting my anus with great force and determination. I go to the bathroom. The poo gets shy and doesn't want to go swimming just yet. So I race home, and that's when Poo decides he wants to come out and play all over the pavement of New York. I barely made it home to the porcelain god, but as I sat there releasing the toxic poison chocolate, I almost wished I never made it. Because what better ending to this story than, "And then I shit my pants!"