this is how I roll

Sometimes you just know it's gonna be one of those days. The kind where you're tearing off your shirt because that tag is so f-ing itchy or you're trying to untangle your headphone wires so viciously that you look like you're starting a lawn mower. The day always gets less awkward and clumsy, but the opening act is just exhausting. Well, I've had a lot of these lately. So many that I sighed out loud just from typing that sentence. After four mornings like this in a row, I forced myself to get a full eight hours of sleep last night, because I couldn't stand the thought of starting off another day wishing I was my Mii so I could triple punch knockout the neighbors cat next person who walked by.

I figured eight hours would do the trick. I wake up, put on my ugliest shirt as a test, didn't immediately want to rip it off, and think yes, this is going to be a good one. I then move to the kitchen because I deserve breakfast on this by God good day, and obviously there's only one thing that would make me happy: a Blanton Blaster McMuffin. I have exactly seven minutes to get out the door—plenty of time to get the goods on the grill, make myself look decent, and be on my way. And I'm alarmingly dexterous this morning! Selecting a pan while grabbing salt from the cabinet, balancing the fridge door with my hip while spraying the skillet. I'm rocking and rolling. Turning on the burner while breaking the—

—only reliably unexpired egg yolk in the house slithers out of its shell and in between the stove and the cabinets. Where did that space even come from? And why the hell did the kitchen designer put it there? I'll tell you why. It was made for this, this eggtastrophe that would set the tone for my day. That space in the cabinet was sent from Satan himself to magnetically suck the goodness out of my Thursday. I watch the viscous blob slow until it clogs the crack, and the yolk breaks upon hitting the floor, leaving me with nothing but a gooey Rorschach test and one minute to spare.

So I was late, hungry, and bitter because I know when I get home, I will have to flush out the vortex of evil with disinfectant so that my apartment doesn't smell like one giant fart.

The good news is, I was inspired to film a documentary called Counting Crows: 1993-2008, starring this egg.