bad day

There should really be an "opt-out" on some days. Just, you know, you wake up and stub your toe and you can only find one of each shoe and you just know what kind of day it is and you skip it. But no, the day dawns, with its smirky little sunny face and its promises of minor disasters and all you got is Joel Osteen reminding you to look at the bright side, which you can't see, because it is jelly-side down on the kitchen floor. "I'm not going to say this is a bad day," you say, in denial. "It will get better." 

It might not. It's probably some kind of natural law, that a day, when headed in the wrong direction, will continue to move in the wrong direction until you fall into a sweaty and distracted sleep, many hours later. It almost seems like it would make more sense just to embrace it. Slam your own foot in the door, deliberately drop the dinner plates on the floor, go to the pediatrician's office on the wrong day on purpose. 

It starts to get funny, after a while, or maybe you get a little punch-drunk, I don't know. Anyway, I've had a bad day, and I might have cake for dinner, or take up drinking. 

Cause I can't fight this bad day anymore. 
I've forgotten what the kids are fighting for. 
Now there's macaroni on the floor, 
Laws keeping me indoor(s), 
Baby, I can't fight this bad day anymore.