It's Like That Daniel Powter Song...

I had a bad day.

January 18th, 2010.

At midnight, I spun out in the snow on the ground and hit a telephone pole with my car. The Mustang is a light car and doesn't do well in the snow. Usually I can recover from a skid, but I ended up taking the turn too fast this time.

The neighbors emerged from the house behind the telephone pole I almost took out.

"Are you okay? Do you need us to call someone?" a woman with a baby asked.

"No, I'll be fine," I said, calling my parents to come help. "Thanks, though."

Eventually, my dad and little brother rushed to the scene to stay with me to wait for a police officer and a tow truck to take my poor Fagmobile away. The officer arrived first and asked me, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, the car's not."

"Oooh, child!" she exclaimed. "You need ta be mo' CAREFUL."

I stopped to wonder why my police officer was acting like a racist Tyler Perry character for a second, but figured I had to continue the conversation so as to not look like I had been drinking (which I hadn't, but the last thing I wanted to do was take a sobriety test in freezing weather).

"Yeah, I will. Thanks, Officer."

To add insult to injury, a Sander drove by the car wreck a few minutes later, attempting to make the road less slippery... I wasn't laughing.

Eventually, I watched as a tow truck came and took my baby away, and my father brought me home. I was ascending the stairs to the top floor of the house to get ready for bed when I heard my mother call, "COAH! COME 'EAH!"

Fuck. I braced myself for a lecture on safe driving. Conveniently, the tears immediately started flowing.

"Mummy! I. HATE. EVERYTHING. I FEEL SOOO BAD. THIS IS GONNA COST SO MUCH MONEY."

My mother's expression softended. "Coah, look, insurance will take care of it. What happened?" I recounted the events of the night, only to be berated over the proper use of "LOW GEAHS." She then snapped, "Go take some PM's and go to bed."

My parents firmly believe that Tylenol PM is a recreational drug. One night, I complained to my father that I hadn't been sleeping through the night, and he handed me four pills. "Dad, I wanna get a good night's sleep. I don't want to sleep FOREVER," I told him.

"Oh, okay, then just take three," he responded. I put the pills back in the bottle and went to sleep.

Anyway, I took the pills and shot off a text message which I had been meaning to send for a while. Having just survived a car crash, I felt like it was as good a time as any to be brave and ask the burning questions. Shortly thereafter, I fell asleep.

I woke up to a telemarketing call, which I ignored. They called back again. I ignored it. And then they left a voicemail, threatening to call back. "Really? Are we doing this right now?" I asked myself. But I figured that morning was as good a time as any to call my insurance company and get this whole thing underway.

"Your insurance policy was canceled," the customer service rep. told me.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN?!"

"It's showing up as canceled."

This was when my mother intervened. Convinced she was in the right (and she was!), she printed a copy of the check the insurance company cashed for this month's insurance, faxed it to the insurance company, and insulted the Brazilian girl who answered the phone. All that aside, my car is being fixed and paid for, which is nice.

It was then I got the response to my important message. And lucky me, I got the "Let's just be friends speech." Again.

Feeling vulnerable, I went into work at 2 p.m. and announced to everyone at the Concessions Counter: "We're gonna play a really fun game today!" Everyone stared and I continued, "It's called, 'Let's Not Piss Corey Off So He Doesn't Slash His Wrists In The Breakroom!'" I got a couple of groans in response and began working.

The dirty 3D glasses needing to be washed were calling my name (as that job requires being in a room alone, listening to music and not being near people). I plugged my iPod into the radio, and found myself developing grudges against Lady GaGa ("Bad Romance"), Beyonce ("Poison," "If I Were a Boy"), and Michael Buble ("Haven't Met You Yet").

The night passed without incident, until the last show was to be loaded. Short staffed as we were, things were going smoothly, until someone got trapped in the revolving door. Meanwhile, I had a woman throwing her popcorn at me because it was too salty.

"TASTE IT! I DARE YOU!" she growled.

10 p.m. rolled around, and by Massachusetts Law, minors cannot work past that point in time. That left only me and Grace to clean everything up. An hour later, most everything was done, when an old, Indian woman approached me and attempted to explain that, "I HAVE MADE DE VOMIT ON YOUR RUG."

I looked up at the sky and asked anyone who might have been listening, "Why?" I ask that question often, but this day will forever go down as "The Day I Died a Little Inside."