I have inexplicably bad days. I didn’t wake up on the wrong side of the bed. I didn’t forget to set my alarm. I didn’t have trouble sleeping. I have clean underwear. My hair looks great. I’m not worried about the things I have to get done that day. It’s not my ‘time of month’. I’m not running late. The sun is shining. The birds are singing. It’s baffling. Yet, there it is. Bad Day.
I refrain from unnecessary interaction with society on my mystifyingly bad days. I don’t make eye contact. I put in headphones to deter polite conversation. I brace myself to resist an unquenchable thirst for the souls of the joyful. I curb the overwhelming need to choke others with the fetid stench of my hostility. I paste a saccharine smile on my face when an unsuspecting victim cheerfully chirps their hopes for me to enjoy my day, whilst I reel in the threads of inky blacks and oily greys straining to darken theirs.
Then someone re-posts something slightly offensive and mildly shocking that I enjoyed with gusto. You’re welcome.