Well Butter my Butt and Call me a Biscuit

Today was the sort of day where, if you set you apple on the counter, it would fall to the floor.
And you wouldn't bother to pick it up.
Today was the sort of day where, if you tripped over your apple and dropped your toast, it would land face down.
And you would walk away.
Today was the sort of day where, if you happened to have dropped your toast on the floor at work, the supervisor who never comes around would, for unknown reasons, pass through your office, and step on dropped toast.
And you would hide under your desk and plan a vacation.
Today was the sort of day where, if you were on an African safari, you would get trampled by elephants.
And you would survive.
Today was the sort of day where, if you were recovering from an elephant trampling, you would be suddenly struck with the chicken pox, and not be able to scratch under your bandages.
And you would be threatened with a straight jacket.
Today was the sort of day where, if you were Robin Hood, Maid Marion would leave you for Friar Tuck.
And you would flee to France.
Today was the sort of day where, if you were French, all of your souffles would crash, and the wine would be gone.
And you would drink cold coffee.
Today was the sort of day where, if you were drinking cold coffee, you would spill it on your clean shirt.
And you would change into the hoodie you keep in your car.
Today was the sort of day where, if you were wearing a hoodie, without a shirt underneath, and without a shirt to change into, the temperature would soar.
And you would think about putting your stained shirt back on.
Today was the sort of day where, if you were sweaty and sticky and nasty, in a hoodie on a hot day, your deodorant would be nowhere to be found.
And you would walk around like a penguin with your arms at your sides.
Today was the sort of day where the cute guy down the hall who never speaks to you, would stop to ask why you were walking like a flightless bird.
And you would go home.
Today was the sort of day where your socks don't match, the whipped cream can explodes in your fridge, your toothbrush is missing in action, the last page of your mystery is torn out, your tooth starts to hurt, you stub your toes on every conceivable protruding point that your feet come across, and your goldfish dies.
And you call your mother.
Today was the sort of day where, for first time in a million years, your mom doesn't pick up the phone, and you get to hear about your little brother's lego collection for the next 20 minutes.
And it makes you smile.
Today was the sort of day that ended with a smile.