Some day are worse than others

I’ve been asked many times to explain how my brain works. That, I can’t do. I can however shed a little light for you and you can decide for yourself.
 
While no two days are the same, there’s a little routine. For instance, every Monday through Friday I wake up and prepare for another shitty day at work. I try to give myself the Jack Donaghy “Magnificent Son of a Bitch” speech in the mirror but drift off on the first line. Usually with thoughts of food or robots. If it’s not raining, there’s a 70 percent chance I will sing in the shower and a 50 percent chance of dancing.
 
I begin the morning commute by turning on the radio for my daily dose of TMD. I eagerly await a string of songs I can sing along to, like “One Year Anniversary” by Goldspot followed by my favorite song of all time, “Tracks of My Tears” by Smokey Robinson. Nothing puts me in a better mood than hitting high notes as loud as I can in the car. Plus I like when people stare, it’s not rude.
 
Eventually I find myself sitting in front of my shitbox Dell corporate solutions computer with my coffee. My “wish I could take this intreveinsouly” coffee. I usually spill it on my desk but wipe it up with my fingers and rub it on my gums. From there I find myself staring for thirty-seven minutes. Of these thirty-seven minutes, three are like a scene from a John Waters movie, five are me in an exotic place…not like Scores but like Belize and the rest traverses between food, stupid people, back to robots and a slight tinge of current events or politics. I casually wonder to myself  why “Transmission” by the band Gay Dad was never a single on the radio. So catchy. I’m quickly brought back to reality by the alarm on my iphone with a smashed screen to buy a Powerball ticket.
 
I struggle throughout the day not to punch myself in the face. This usually leads to happy hour which usually leads to karaoke. It helps me cope with my previous failed attempts at being a  rockstar. Once a week an unforeseeable accident happens to me like a tree falling on my already temperamental car or a dog smacking an open wound on my leg with it’s tail. I take it in stride. Fuck you universe. I’m expecting an anvil or unfortunate ass disease to strike me at any moment.
 
At least part of every day I wonder what it would be like to be Wendy Williams. She’s pretty cool, right? Eventually I realize I’m hungry. In my head I look like that trainer chick Jillian from Biggest Loser and with good intentions begin to prepare a vegetable stir-fry. Skip into the future twenty minutes, I’m eating slices and these delicious meat and cheese pin wheel things with marinara from Tutti Gusti. The next morning I’m reminded of my misdeeds when I see the Frank’s Redhot on the coffee table, I get pissed at myself. I do not look like Jillian. I always have a fridge full of rotten veggies.
 
There are only a few things that I’m certain about. I have no less than eight nicknames, tread a lot of water and I use the term "Terrible. F!" way too many times in one day. I can’t explain how I arrive at thoughts like cockroach tuxedos to protect me during nuclear attack or the types of new life forms that could spawn from the DNA left on turf at an indoor soccer arena. I clearly cannot answer a lot of my own questions but I have a feeling I could be the best damn life coach you’ve ever seen.