I have had a HORRIBLE day! I know you don’t want to hear it, but come on. Sometimes poo poo happens and when it does, it pours down on my head, turning it a rich brown. I’ll be washing my hair later, don’t you worry.
The day started out pretty ordinary, Dear Diary. I was super tired from the day before and all the bar hopping after work, but I rallied myself and rolled out of the sack to get dressed. You know I have an excellent work ethic, Dear Diary, even though I was already an hour late for work. At least the traffic would be light, amirite?
As soon as I went downstairs I knew something was wrong. My mother was staring at me, her arms crossed, a scowl on her face that would scare Caligula. Seems she found some clothes in the dishwasher that smelled like a Bowery Bum’s. They were covered in vomit and feathers. Feathers??
I told her I had no clue whose clothes they were (and I really don’t, Diary), and that I was offended she’d think I’d do such a thing. She ignored me after plucking a few feathers out of my hair, dialed the repairman (seems whoever had put the clothes in dishwasher had started the machine, too), and said she’d “deal with me later.” Oh, boy. When Mom gets mad, we never hear the end of it.
I popped a few hundred aspirin for this nagging headache that was making me want to hurl at any second, and walked out to wait for my friend, Dirk, to pick me up. My car must have been in the repair shop because I have no clue where it was.
The kids down the street were outside waiting for the school bus. When they saw me, they started pointing and laughing. Crumb snatchers. I hate those kids. I resisted the temptation to flip them off. Mom’s always telling me to “be the better person.”
Why, Diary? Why do I always have to be the better person? No one even notices when I AM the better person.
I drove to work and walked to my desk. No one would meet my eye, and when they did, they smirked. I have no clue why. I sat down, turned on my computer and started shuffling papers.
At ten o’clock, I got a call from Mr. Fudhopper, my boss (you remember him, Dear Diary. I’ve mentioned him before), who said he wanted to see me, ASAP.
I gulped down my tenth cup of coffee, which was piping hot, burned my tongue, and walked to his office. He told me to sit down and then said he was surprised to see me there. I asked him why, and he said after I’d called him at 3am to tell him a great idea I had for the business, he’d fired me. And he said I’d told him I’d taken his parrot!
I have no clue what he meant, Diary. I was offended he’d think I’d do such a thing.
Then he told me that after firing me, he’d considered my “idea” and thought it was a great one. He thanked me for caring so much as to share it with him in the middle of the night and that I was a genius. He was putting me in charge of it!
Then he told me to “Get out and make it happen. Now.”
I have no clue what the idea was, Dear Diary, but I’m writing to you from an economy seat on Somalia Airways, one bag in the overhead bin, a hastily acquired passport and visa in my tote bag, a few hundred vaccine shots in my bottom from the company doctor, a book from Fudhopper on how to avoid leprosy, and a seventh drink in my hand.
Oh, and the boss’s pet parrot is sitting next to me, sipping a martini and teaching me useful phrases in Somalie, like, “Don’t shoot! I’m a Somalian, just like you!”
I’m ready to call Fudhopper again. Give him a piece of my mind.
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