Today Was An Evil One
If I told you how bad my day has been you might not believe me. If it made sense I would describe my bad day as being too-good-to-be-true.
Let’s start with last night. I mentioned the other day how my friend who signed me up to be his wing (at least I think that’s how it works?) on a triple blind date through some Facebook app that is also a dating service. It still doesn’t make sense to me, but I went with it. And of course it turned out to be a disaster that requires more space than I can devote to it today. Which is a shame because I actually had a not-bad time. One of the three girls was amiable, and cute, and I was for all intents and purposes dragged out of the bar before I could tell her it was good to meet her or ask for her number. Oh well, these things happen. We walked down the street and into another bar, where we immediately befriended another group of three girls. I took a liking to one of them, we shared a few shots of whiskey and texted emoji back-and-forth at each other like a couple of six year olds. It was cute. What wasn’t cute was how drunk I wound up getting. I got very, very hammered.
Then today happened.
I awoke at 8:07am with a ringing headache, and thought for a minute I might throw up. Good thing I didn’t have to work today. Then I remembered today was Thursday and raced (though I imagine it didn’t look much like racing considering my fragile condition) to move my car before it could be ticketed because of street cleaning. Seven minutes. I missed getting a ticket by seven. fucking. minutes. $73 later, I awkwardly (maybe still drunkenly?) moved my car. I should have just left it there. It’s not like they would have re-ticketed me for another $73.
I walked back into my house, trudged up the stairs feeling defeated, and thought, “Maybe I’ll go tweet about how I missed not getting a parking ticket by seven minutes.” Lo-and-behold, when I tried to follow through on my plan, my laptop refused to turn on. This little gray progress bar kept appearing as the operating system was starting (and restarting, and restarting) and then everything would shut down. I tried resetting the PRAM. I tried resetting the SMC. I tried running Disk Utility. I’m a pretty savvy computer user (read: NERD!) so after fifteen minutes of attempted fixes I realized something must be wrong. I scheduled the earliest possible appointment at my local Apple Store.
“Hi, how are you doing today?” The “genius” at the bar asked me. By the way, the “bars” in those Apple Stores don’t stock any booze, or I might have asked for a mimosa or a bloody mary.
Instead, I answered, “I’m so hungover right now I’m just trying to stay on this stool without falling off.”
The genius took my laptop away to run some tests on it. I didn’t see her for ten minutes, which meant she was most-likely was not amused by the honesty with which I answered her question. When she returned, she told me that the problem was a mechanical disc failure and we would have to replace the hard drive. I could buy a hard drive, go home and do it myself, or she could do it then and there. $231 later I had a new hard drive installed and I was free to leave the store. As I was packing up my belongings, the genius told me she hoped my day would improve. It wouldn’t.
I went to meet a friend for lunch. Surely some food would cure me of my ills. We decided to go to Juicy Lucy in the new Figuera/7th Street/City Target abortion they built downtown. The food court there is one of the most depressing places imaginable. I felt like I was walking into a scene from Running Man, or some other dystopian sci-fi future where everything is white and everybody (in this case businessmen from the surrounding offices, I imagine) looks identical and there’s creepy soft muzak playing to lull us all into a false sense of druggy euphoria. Maybe it was like The Prisoner. Or the Simpsons episode that is an homage to the Prisoner. We were all numbers, not people. Anyway, our burgers and fries and sodas came out to $35. At a fucking burger counter in a food court. Imagine paying $35 every time you walk into a Chipotle. You can’t. You can’t imagine paying $35 for Chipotle because NOBODY WOULD DO THAT. Worse than that, the burger and fries sucked. My headache was alleviated but somehow I felt more depressed looking at my empty plate than I did before I sat down.
We validated our parking. We walked to the parking pay stations. Standing next to each other, my friend and I insert our parking tickets into the machines. One screen read $2.50, the other read $17.50. You can probably guess which one was mine. I started to complain, and a young woman walked over to help me.
“Did you validate your parking?” she asked.
“Yes! We both did, at the same time at the same place.”
“What level did you park on?” she asked.
“Validation only counts if you parked on one of the first three levels,” she informed me. She pointed to a colorful little notice on the machine stated validation can only be used to discount parking fees for customers who park on the bottom three levels.
I was livid. “Well it would’ve been nice if I’d known that beforehand! You could put up a sign or something!” I threw my hands up in defeat, then reached for my credit card to pay the $17.50 fee.
Immediately after I yelled at her — almost on top of each other — both the woman and my friend said, “There are signs. There are signs all over the garage.” The two of them then proceeded to point to no less then a half-dozen large signs posted all around us. Truly, I was humbled.
“Maybe you should just go home and crawl into bed. Call it a day,” I was told.
So I did. Or at least I planned to. I got into my car, pulled out of the parking lot onto Figueroa, and then heard a little buzzing sound. I looked down at my shirt and noticed there was a bee crawling up my torso.
Without even thinking, I jammed on the breaks (Figueroa is, like, a four or five-lane one-way street), put the car into park, and flung myself free of the vehicle screaming and tugging at my shirt. I was on the phone with my sister at the time, and I’m pretty sure she thought I was being abducted and/or murdered. It wasn’t the most graceful thing I’ve ever done in my life, and I imagine those passersby who WEREN’T honking and cursing at me for stopping my car in the middle of the street got a good laugh out of it. Having removed myself (and the bee!) from the car, I climbed back in and drove home.
Here I am, guys. It’s been an expensive, terrible, no-good, very bad day. And it’s not even close to over yet. Wish me luck.
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