Today was not my day.
I ordered a tuna sub from a generally reliable, tasty submarine sandwich shop - and they gave me the wrong sandwich. I found out when I got back to work, sat down with a growling belly, and unwrapped my sandwich, salivating for a six-inch tuna sub on Italian bread with Swiss cheese, mayonnaise, green peppers and lettuce. The guy ahead of me in line got my sub. I'm still waiting.
For reasons unbeknownst to me, my body is malfunctioning. And because I don't want to exclude my faithful male readers, I won't provide further information. We'll leave it at that.
I have to go into a witness protection program. OK, that last bit isn't true, but it's close. And I'm not pleased.
I ran out of toilet paper.
I haven't ran in four days. My angst is mounting.
It's Monday. That trumps all things bad about today.
Mostly I'm just crabby. Don't mess with my tuna sub.
(Photo courtesy of Toothpaste For Dinner)