It was no big deal; nobody got hurt, or sick, or died today, so it’s not like it was an awful day.
It was, however, a shit day. A day filled with shit. A day in which each and every thing that I did, from the moment I awoke to the thirty-eighth consecutive day of pissing rain, to the moment I returned home, was filled with maddening, aggravating, infuriating shit. The kind of day that begins to convince you that in the end, life is one long series of frustrating kicks in the crotch, until finally you say “fuck it,” and give up the ghost already, leaving this fucked-up planet to the deranged idiots who seem to multiply upon it so prolifically.
It did not help that at one point, while trying to accomplish one or the other of my myriad of tasks, I had to try and squeeze between a hall obstacle (it may have been someone idly flapping their gums about some no doubt pointless bullshit) and a storage cabinet against the wall, the door handle on the cabinet somehow slipped down into my back pocket, causing me to rip the seat of my fucking pants virtually clear off.
It is NOT funny.
Stop laughing!
Admit it, it was funny or should I say I would have laughed. I did something close to that in a restaurant once on business. It was a sharp edge on a chair and later a large cut in the pants. The pants were only a week old. Good ventilation though. Put a button or two in and makes going to the washroom for #2 easier.
I’ve been learning to laugh at myself better lately; I sat around most of the week grumbling that my boss keeps micro-managing everything I do (look, if you want to re-do everything, just do it in the first place, neh?) and I keep letting the little things overwhelm me, but my wits (and apparently, thankfully, pants) are mainly intact, so far.
Perhaps the trousers, now hors de combat, could be integrated into a Juniorvania memorial museum or suitably, subtly into a coat of arms?