I had a bad day. I had a good day.

I only slept one hour last night. Allergies, itchy throat and a dry cough kept me up. That was bad.

My monthly Metropass ran out. The machines at 169th weren’t accepting cash OR credit. That was infuriating.

I had to walk four blocks, find a business to give me change for a $20 and see a snotty attendant. I’m not going to call that bad because her job sucks. I’m sure she had a bad day.

I was 40 minutes late to work. (Not good. Yet I commute to a job that I truly enjoy and have a boss that understands I don’t just work 9 to 5, Monday through Friday: good.)

At work, my colleague told me that my tweet about the MTA’s incompetent machines made it onto Gothamist. That was pretty good.

Then a reporter with a major daily newspaper in the Philadelphia area agreed to talk to one of my Fordham professors on an interesting story. My day was looking up. We’ll see if she quotes him. That would be good.

Later, I sent a gentle email nudging an editor about a story I had been pitching him on for weeks was going to make it into Rolling Stone. It did. This was extremely good.

Then I went to the gym (good) and later dropped the belt of my sweater in the toilet (bad.)

I washed it (meh) and returned to my office, where I worked until 7 p.m. (good, trust me. It’s good to be busy.)

“Drunk as hell but no throwin up
Half way home and my pager still blowin up
Today I didn’t even have to use my A.K.
I got to say it was a good day (shit!)”

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