Today is turning out to be one of those crappy days that make you want to just go home and plant yourself face down in the bed until it all just goes away. At least it wasn’t one of those "everything was going so well" kind of days. Today has been very upfront about itself from the beginning.

As of this moment, it’s been relatively quiet on the karmic front. So far, though, the following pratfalls have taken place:

12:15 AM: My oldest son has a random weird nightmare. My wife slumbers through it, or pulls off the best fake-out ever. I get up to deal with it.

12:18 AM: I return to bed to find a cat has taken my place. While picking the cat up to move her out of the way, her feet flail out. A claw tags me through my shorts right on the glans.

12:19 AM: A quick inspection in the bathroom reveals that said glans is still intact, despite the stinging pain, which soon begins to pass. The stinging pain was not, however, apparently did not wake me enough to avoid stubbing my toe on the doorjamb on the way back to bed. In order to avoid waking the entire house, I crumple to the floor and suffer silently for a few minutes, rocking back and forth like some sort of autistic child.

12:25 AM: The fucking cat is back in my spot in bed.

2:24 AM: A nagging reminder of my increasing decrepitude, my bladder sends a signal to my brain, indicating that it is now operating at maximum fluid capacity. Attempts to ignore the signal fail, forcing me back into the bathroom.

2:35 AM: My alarm goes off. Thank you, Mr. Bladder, for robbing me of those last few precious moments of sleep. I hope it was worth it, you asshole. I hit the snooze button.

2:45: AM: The alarm has another go at it. I hit the snooze button again.

3:20 AM: The cat goes out of its way to step on the back of my knee as it picks its way across the bed. The resulting combination of claw and pressure cause just enough pain to make me realize that I turned the alarm off at 2:45 instead of hitting the snooze button again.

3:35 AM: The fat white squiggle on top of the loaf of raspberry-glazed bread I bought turns out not to be some kind of cream cheese, but is, instead, some bizarre and rubbery stuff with no taste. The more I chew it, the more it reminds me of escargot. So much for breakfast. Bleah.

3:50 AM: I run out the front door and drop my lunch. Bending over to pick it up, my sunglasses fall out of my shirt pocket, and are now irredeemably scratched.

4:20 AM: About thirty miles into my commute, the fuel light comes on, reminding me that I was supposed to have bought gasoline this morning.

4:24 AM: I make it to a gas station, and quickly go through the routine: credit card in, gasoline grade selected, cap off, nozzle in, latch up. The nozzle, however has other plans, and the spring-loaded vapor recovery shroud propels the nozzle out of its place in my car, spewing about twenty cents’ worth of gasoline into my immediate environs. Approximately ten cents’ worth soaks my right sock, shirt, and pants. It turns out ten cents’ worth of gasoline goes a long way when it’s in your clothes.

4:39 AM: Several miles down the road, I finally realize my throbbing headache is not due to lack of sleep; it’s because my clothing is acting as a powerful air de-freshener: noxious petrochemical fumes are wafting up from my raiment, gently dissolving connecting tissues in my forebrain.

4:50 AM: Finally, I’ve arrived at work. I trip on the curb as I exit my car, spilling my lunch again. So much for soup. The salad’s still intact, though.

6:01 AM: In the shower after my morning run, I find that the bottle I used to transport shampoo previously held bubble bath. The bubbly froth is easily dealt with, but my hair now smells like fruit punch. Still, it counterbalances the gasoline from my pants, so it’s not too bad.

7:39 AM: Things are going reasonably well until, without warning, a massive sneeze bursts forth from my nose and mouth. Both monitors are now covered with a multitude of clear droplets that refract my work into tiny and delightful but illegible rainbows. I also find I’m out of Kleenex.

8:22 AM: While idly scratching my chin, I also remove a shaving scab without realizing it. I notice it a moment later when the keys under my left hand feel a bit slippery. Apparently spit and nasal mucous weren’t enough bodily fluids to spread around my cubicle. I spend the next couple of minutes cleaning my own blood off of the keyboard.

Hopefully that’s the extent of it. If not, tune in tomorrow for the obituary detailing my improbable death involving a paper soda cup, optical mouse, and a handful of thumbtacks.