I turned off my alarm clock this morning wondering why the hell I'd set it for 6AM on a Sunday.
As I scrambled to get myself together for work when I realized at 8AM that it was, in fact, only Friday, things only got worse.
My jeans, for one, were a whole lot tighter on me than the last time I'd worn them. Feeling like a fatty fat fat, I threw on tops, only to pull them off in disgust. Deciding to join the ranks of the sabotage-Sabila brigade, my hair refused to do much of anything, so I yanked it back into a lame ponytail and attempted to make myself look presentable with blush and lipstick.
It didn't quite work the way that I'd hoped it would: my jeans were still snug, the top I'd finally settled on still didn't look right, and I was still effing late.
I felt three feet tall and two hundred pounds heavy as I braved the rain while juggling my two bags and an uncooperative umbrella. I entered the station just in time to watch my train pull away. Once I got on the next train, I rifled through my bag only to discover that I'd left the galley I've been reading at home. And so I waited for my stop, having ample time to meditate on what an awful day this is going to be.