Perhaps, I'm just a cold, heartless bitch... Or, Why I won't wear pink to support the fight against Breast Cancer

I hate the color pink.

I have never especially enjoyed the color for the same reason I don't like my hair blonde. I feel like someone expected it of me, like I was told that is the way I should look as a woman. I feel like girls that buy pink things or dye their hair blond are subconsciously adhering to some expectation held for us.

Historically, pink has been the color of femininity, and thus it is regarded as a sweet, delicate, precious color. It's why we slather it over bachelorette party accessories and baby shower decorations. What frustrates me the most is when they slap pink on some ordinary every day thing just to target women consumers-- as if we would only purchase this item because they make it acceptable now that it is pink, and thus feminine. I realised the extent of the idiocy involved in this line of thinking the first time Wyatt and I considered buying a gun. I facepalmed when I saw the line of pink rifles and shotguns displayed behind the glass. What is even worse about the idea of a pink gun is that it says "Hey little lady-- hunting's a mans hobby, but since you insist on tagging along with him to go deer hunting, we'll make sure you have a special pretty gun make it acceptable for you".

Blue on a boy doesn't bother me at all. But pink on a girl makes my skin crawl. It damn near makes me angry. I mean, really, god damn, another one? We lost another one? It's 2012!

I went garage sale shopping a few weekends ago, and a overheard some kids talking. One little boy proudly held up an entire grocery bag of small toys and exclaimed to his friends "I got all these for a quarter!" The two girls in the group peered into the bag and one asked, "Didn't they have any girls toys?" Does it make me a deplorable human being if I can admit I wanted to bitch smack a seven year old? Just play with the fucking toy! I had legos, water guns, hot wheels, and a ton of other "boy toys" when I was a kid and I played with them just as much as my dolls and stuffed animals and my kitchen set. And why the fuck are all the girls toys cookware and cleaning equipment!? That's what every little girl wants! A toy vaccuum so she can learn how much house cleaning blows early.

This is the kind of dumb ass thinking they have programmed in our brains.

Now, before you even start, yes, I do traditionally "feminine" things. I wear makeup when I go out and to work and I wear the occasional dress because I love my calves, but look stumpy in shorts. I paint my nails every color of the visible spectrum-- EXCEPT PINK! Never pink.I just can't bring myself to do it.

The whole blue is for boys and pink is for girls is one of these lasts hold outs from the older generations of gender inequality. And, the fact that breast cancer was given the color pink pisses me the fuck off. As a woman, I know that breast cancer is a devastating diagnosis. Losing a breast would be unimaginable-- not because I feel that my breasts define me as a woman, but more that after carrying around these meat sacks for fifteen years it would be the equivalent of losing any other appendage. It's a part of your body, and I would be as depressed about losing a breast as I would be about a finger or an eye. Especially, when you consider the investment most women have made in buying overpriced tit slings to keep them from flopping around under your clothes.

It's just the idea that we have to associate pink with breast cancer because it primarily effects women. I mean, with that thinking, why is testicular cancer lilac, and not blue? I mean, if we have to be that fucking blatant about it, why aren't we just as stereotypical when it comes to boys?

I don't care if it makes me feel like a heartless bitch. I will not wear pink, even to support my breast cancer stricken aunt. It's just continuing the cycle of expectations held for women. I am respectful of all those afflicted or in remission, and I will keep hoping for all those women-- hoping, not praying, because what sense does it make if you believe that god has a plan for you, and every thing happens for a reason, that he would he take away the cancer he obviously gave you? That's why I don't pray. Because it makes that much sense. But, I will keep hoping... just not while wearing pink.

Signs You're at a Small Town Bar

Recently, I made the twenty five minute trek home to Dawson to spend time with my family in what has now apparently become the only way we can socialize-- drinking at one of the many taverns in the tri-village area. Every time I do this I ask my self how I once again ended up in this situation... and yet, I return time and time again for the sake of the happiness of my clinically depressed grandmother who I love more than life itself, and cannot bare to disappoint.

I digress...

In no particular order--

Sign #1-- Suddenly without realizing it happened, it's like a high school reunion where the only people invited are of all the kids that you avoided in high school.

There are two types of people who go to the small town bar:

1) People who for the grace of some benevolent force in the universe escaped, and have returned merely for the entertainment.
2) The entertainment, or better known as "the regulars"

I went to college for many reasons. One reason was so I did not have to live in Dawson. So, when I return home, and we go out, and suddenly I am inundated by a flood of rejects who during my high school experience were drug dealers, homophobes, rednecks, illiterates, alcoholics, baby-daddies, baby-mommas, drop outs, criminals, and/or any combination there of or unmentioned, I am astonished that these people attempt to converse with me. Once I show up, in comes the parade of derelict people whose lives suck so much that the ONLY thing they have to look forward too is getting shitfaced on Bud Light bucket specials or Crown and Cokes.

AND THEY INSIST ON TALKING TO ME!

I have a college education. You have a certification in cosmetology from CACC.

I am married and have a job. You have a baby daddy and a drug addiction.

I went to Europe to witness the ruins of the ancients, and it changed my life. You went to the river bottoms to get drunk on a raft for your bachelorette party.

WHAT THE FUCK DO WE HAVE TO TALK ABOUT!? We didn't talk in high school when I was ignorant and uneducated about the world. What makes you think we could possible have a conversation now?

Now, I'm not insinuating I am better than these people....

I am flat out telling you incontestable facts that prove I am better than these people.

Sign #2-- Any of the following dress code violations:

A memorial T-shirt that reads "Loved but not forgotten", with the picture of the deceased loved one holding any type of dead animal, that has been haphazardly sheared of its sleeves with a pocket knife. Because this is how uncle J.R. wanted to be immortalized by his remaining family...

A forty year old woman wearing a Harley-Davidson shirt that is at least one size too small, worn so tightly it gives her a muffin top over the low-rider, bedazzled jeans she wears to look like a teenager, AND to complete the look, is tucked in to further emphasize the beer gut she is trying to grow to hide her c-section scar under the flap.

A camouflage hat with a fake fishing hook on the brim... because when I think fashion icons to be emulated, I think Larry the Cable Guy.

A white kid wearing a flat billed hat, sagging jeans, pristine white tennis shoes, and a wife beater accompanying his underage girlfriend, who's is herself wearing a dress that would make a hooker exclaim "Damn girl!", with a pair of cowboy boots to "dress it down", or perhaps even to "class it up" in their fucked up world view.

Any man wearing over-alls.

Sign #3-- A single toilet bathroom with a broken lock.

Who decides to build a bar with single toilet bathrooms? I do not enjoy playing the game where I have to attempt to twist the handle ever so gently as not to actually open the door, because the music is so fucking loud you couldn't possibly hear a knock from inside. Either one of two things will happen: there is no one inside and you'll stand outside like a damn idiot waiting because you could not get the handle to turn, and assume it must be locked, or you'll barge in on the bitchiest woman in the bar.

Last but not least...

Sign #4-- A karaoke night that some white trash girl thinks is the birth of her country music career.

Have I been known to drunkenly sing country music on karaoke night in Dawson... unforunately, yes.

Have I ever advertised this event as the fucking social event of the season this side of Uncle J.R.'s memorial poker run? Fuck no.

And, furthermore, as a moment of side-bitching, why is it that every girl who sings country songs during karaoke suddenly develops a Tennessee accent? Look chick, I know that Dawson and the surrounding area has a certain level of redneck drawl, but unless you make moonshine in the hills because the black lung took yo' daddy, you should not sound like a Appalachian.

Then again, I'm not sure which is more tragic-- the barely drinking age legal bimbo, or the twice divorced if at all married mother of three who may or may not still have a drug habit who uses karaoke to fill the void in her life that was created as a result of a landslide of bad decisions. While it may not be possible to answer this question of who is more tragic, I know one thing about each of these women-- they both think they are the next Carrie Underwood.

The Accidental Threesome

Last night, a cursory search of the new additions to NetFlix revealed that they had finally placed How I Met Your Mother on Watch Instantly. So, I added it to the Instant Queue, and waited for Wyatt to get home from Jam Night at Kyle's so we could watch a few episodes of the last season, which we have yet to see. A few episodes turned into ten or more, and we didn't end up going to bed until after four in the morning. Nothing really for Wyatt, working third shift, but I had woken up early that day and was approaching twenty-four hours of straight awakeness. I was beginning to get a headache when we laid done. I did not take anything for it though because I figured it was just my body trying to tell me, "Hey Lady! This sharp pulsing pain in the middle of your brain is a warning alarm. Your brain will shut down in approximately ten minutes if you don't go to fucking bed." That being said, I was approaching a point we will call... cranky... yeah, that's the word we'll go with.

While lying in bed, I made the mistake of asking Wyatt a question. It was a mistake for two reasons. Reason 1-- I already knew the answer. Reason 2-- I knew the answer annoys Wyatt, but he refuses to do anything about it, because Wyatt is the guy that just sits back and lets shit roll. Shit that should not roll. Shit that should be addressed by adults, because we are mature-- well, that is a malleable term in my case, but I digress-- and sometimes you have to say things to people that they need to hear. Things that they don't want to hear, and sometimes, that you don't even want to say. But that is part of what being an adult is-- doing stuff you don't like or are uncomfortable with. It builds character and makes you stronger, even if you whinge about it a lot.

Well, I tried to make this point, and Wyatt took the route of just picking on me as a response. For some unknown to me reason, he thinks this is cute. He thinks this is flirting. This is not flirting. Trying to annoy someone to the point they fight with you is not flirting. Flirting requires wit.

My response to his taunting, "If you're going to pick on me, can't you at least try to be flirty about it? Why can't you be clever with your brain?"

Yes. There is no need to point out the irony in that sentence, because as previously stated, I had been up for almost twenty-four hours. Did I mentioned we had done a little drinking? No, I forgot that. We had been drinking. My brain was flushed with two drinks and deprived of sleep. No one was expecting me to be clever with my brain. I wasn't the one on trial here-- Wyatt was.

I don't want to be picked on like some third grade girl. Wyatt seems to have digressed from when we were first dating in his affection and flirting ability. He used to do amazingly romantic things, like the time he drove all the way from Bloomington-- sixty miles-- in a fucking blizzard to follow me home from school and make sure I was safe. Um. Sploosh. Flash forward seven years later, and Wyatt thinks flirting and romance is pissing me off to the point I want to punch him, because to him it is fun. I think we are both past the "I pick on you because I like you stage". If we are going to pick on each other, can't we at least be sexy about it? Can't we banter? I don't want Calvin hitting Susie with a water balloon type of flirting. I want the Doctor and River kind of flirting. Back and forth, tit for tat, clever with your brain kind of stuff. Sure, that might annoy me a little, but it also hot.

Doctor: River you have that face on again.
River: What face is that Doctor?
Doctor: The he's hot when he's clever face.
River: This is my normal face, Doctor.
Doctor: Precisely. (Sexy smirk)

SPLOOOSH! Hot. Take some notes.

But, because he is Wyatt, his response to Why can't you be clever with your brain? was to, without a word, simple roll over on top of me to squish me until I could not breathe.

For the rest of my life, I will always be Susie I guess. So, as I laid there, under hundred of pounds of my husband, oxygen squeezing slowly from my flattened lungs, using up whatever excess I had to kind of struggle, blinded by the sleep mask I could not remove because my arms are pinned under his weight, I hear:

"Are you licking my shoulder!?"

WTF? "No. My mouth is close to your shoulder, but I am definitely not licking it!"

Still blinded, I hear, "Damn it, Moe!"

A that point Wyatt lifts up, and says "Look."

Finally able to move, and breathe, I removed my mask to see that Moe had silently hopped into Wyatt's spot on the bed that he had vacated to squish me. While Wyatt laid on top of me, Moe was licking him shoulders from behind.

Last night I discovered my dog is better at flirting that my husband.

Ill-annoying.

Not too long ago, I was watching "How the State Got their Shapes", and they had a whole segment of the show about people from Nevada bitching about people mispronouncing their state's name. Apparently, it's Ne-vad-a, not Ne-vaw-da. Oh, boo hoo. Get over it. Tell me this mister Nevadian- How do you pronounce Illinois? Because, I'd bet twenty dollars you pronounce the fucking "s".

Alright, I never took french, but I know that the "s" in Illinois is silent. Yet, no-one save the residents of the state itself, can figure this out. It's quickly becoming one of my biggest pet peeves.

Then, yesterday during observation, one of the girls was doing a report and when she said Illinois, she pronounce the "s". Is this ignorance spreading? How can it be infecting our own residents? Granted, she is twelve and I can forgive her, but if she said it, it means she's heard it from an adult in her life. Ugh! How can we be letting this happen?

I can even understand there might by a bit of confusion because there are states that end in "s" that pronounce them. Texas. Kansas. Okay. But, do you hear anyone pronouncing Arkansas, Ar-Kan-Sass? No. And, it even has the word Kansas in it-- a take that pronounces the "s".

My plea to America-- please stop pronouncing it "Illinoise".

"Green is my favorite color every rainbow."

This quote is perhaps the most brilliant and hilarious thing I have ever said.

Let me supply some context...

Exactly, what my sister posted as her status:

"It feels amazing outside. I love fall,hoodys and bonfires. Cuddling and hayrack rides. the smell of burning leaves and all pretty colors. this is definately my favorite season every year, so thankful its here."

How I responded:

Post one:
"Because I have too-- a) hoodies**. If you don't believe me, google it. =) b) Something about "my favorite season every year" just sounds strange, as if despite the fact it is clearly contains all the factors that you deem to be the best and use to dictate your favorite, the statement implies that perhaps you are always surprised that it is your favorite. Or, that an unknown instigating factor may perhaps sway your favoritism one year. It's kind of like saying, "Green is my favorite color every rainbow." See, something just sounds odd about it. lol. But, yeah, I am also happy Autumn is finally here.


Post two:
"Also, because I missed it the first time, c) definitely**"

Post three:
"And, neglect the extraneous "is" before "clearly". I was typing faster than my brain."

I am not sure why her post bugged me the way it did. Perhaps it is because I just finished what could possibly be the most cleverly and masterfully constructed argument to a question ever posed to me (by my online social studies methods teacher). Perhaps it is because of the aforementioned statement that I am to conclude I am at my most brilliant after the Witching hour and before sunrise. So, fresh off the high of my own brilliance, I stumbled upon her post while glancing at Facebook, and had to respond.

Now, I cannot stop fucking laughing at "Green is my favorite color every rainbow".

An argument only my husband and I could have...

While cleaning the house yesterday in preparation for Darryl's birthday poker game, Wyatt and I were each cleaning while something educational was on television. During one of the commercial breaks a commercial for a travel show I have watched occasionally called Rick Steves' Europe came on. Rick Steves is a famous travel guy who does travels shows in which he travels. Occasionally he writes books about it too. Anyway, Rick was going to Iran in the next episode, and this made me pause because I had to make fun of the fact that Iran is not located Europe. It made me laugh and I commented about it. And, this point is where I made the unfortunate mistake of allowing this comment to lead into the following conversation. (The following is a paraphrased transcript of what I can remember about this unbelievably stupid conversation.)

Bekki- "Well, obviously Rick Steves' doesn't know much about geography, because last time I checked, Iran is in the Middle East, not in Europe."

Wyatt- "Yes it is.

Bekki- "What? No it's not. It's on a completely different continent."

Wyatt-- trying to be condescending, "Bekki, where is the Middle East? What continent is it on?"

Bekki-- "It's in Asia, Wyatt. The show is called Rick Steves' "EUROPE". They are going to another continent that is not Europe.

Wyatt-- A little more condescending sounding, not sure why because his comments are so completely non-sensical, "So, it's not really Middle East then is it?"

Bekki- "Yes it IS! That is the regional term."

Wyatt- "Well it can't be the Middle East if it's in Asia. You're not talking about a regional term, you were talking about a continent."

Bekki, who is utterly lost at this point, near face-palming, "What the fuck are you talking about? Where do we live? We live in the Mid-West, which is on the North American Continent. Just because the region is in North America doesn't mean it's not referred to as the Mid-West. That's the regional term."

Wyatt, still continuing with this ludacris conversation for reasons unknown to intelligent beings, "But you weren't talking about the region, you were talking about the continent."

Bekki- "REGARDLESS OF THE WORDING I USED, THE POINT REMAINS THAT IRAN IS NOT IN FUCKING EUROPE!

Wyatt- "Yeah, but it's close by."

This is the point in the conversation in which I resort to drinking in case this conversation continues.

Shut the fuck up, take my money, and put me in a fucking classroom!

Once again, UIS has found a new way to kill my brain cells with their bureaucratic stupidity. I was informed yesterday that I have two weeks to submit the 50 some odd forms, applications, certificates, and other jazz I need to sign up and qualify for student teaching in the Spring of 2012. Most of these things I could have completed months, even years ago, and yet they withhold this info until two weeks before I have to have it submitted, after which there is absolutely no way they will consider me for teaching in the spring. So, in the next two weeks I have to fill out three applications, without errors of any kind-- can't even cross out or whiteout--, obtain signatures from department chairs and advisers in triplicate graduation application forms, write a new resume and teaching philosophy --has to be new, can't be any of the 1000 I have had make of either in all my education classes-- and print them in quintuple -- yes, that's right, five copies--, take two online courses for mandated reporting and health and safety, and pass tests for both for which I have to submit two forms for each, meet with my TEP advisor twice for more approvals and signatures, and a whole bunch of other forms and documents and bullshit and run around.

To say I am unhappy, angry, annoyed, would be an understatement. I wish I could re-organize this department on an epic level. The complete and utter lack of sensibility or communication skills by this department is staggering. I know I am a good teacher, and all the proof comes from my reviews and evaluations from my students and sponsor teachers. But, this department refuses to equip us with the practical knowledge one will need to become a competent teacher in a real world setting...

NO! Instead, I have been forced to take my umpteenth online class where for my first fucking assignment I must write an autobiographical paper about why I want to be a teacher, my experiences with teaching, and how I think these experiences will make me a better teacher! HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I FUCKING WRITTEN THIS PAPER! Seriously? No... SERIOUSLY!?

[Excuse the brief interruption in your regularly schedule blog post while the writer puts a gun in her mouth.]

This is not going to make me a better teacher. Making me take bullshit online courses where I do not actually get to function in a real classroom setting will not make me a better teacher. Waxing poetic bullshit about how great of a teacher I'll imagine I'll be will not make me a better teacher. Do you know what will make me a better teacher?

PUT ME IN A FUCKING CLASSROOM!

I understand there are methods and lessons I have to learn beforehand, but how will I ever learn to put them into actual practice if all my classes are online and I only get 40 hours of in classroom time with actual living, breathing, spit ball shooting, sarcastic, intelligent, learning disabled, black, white, hispanic, impoverished, wealthy, athletic, awkward, and any other combination of diverse students! This is why the level of education in this country is so unbelievably, terrifyingly dismal. If we can't even properly educate future educators, what hope do the poor students have without qualified, competent teachers, without funding for resources for those teachers, and with NCLB dictating what subjects are important and unimportant based on whether we can standardize a test for it?

I'm terrified to get up in front of a classroom and claim myself to be a teacher. I do not in any way feel prepared for this. I feel cheated. I feel like I got a sub-standard education, and if I don't feel like I'll be ready to teach these students on the level they deserve, how is that fair to them? I love teaching, and I know how to relate to students, how to present material to them, how to make school fun, how to make it come alive, how to interact with them-- when I get up there, I now how to be a good teacher-- but UIS wants me to be a good clinical teacher, all sterilized and generic, all touchy-feely and not gritty and realistically.

Dear mystical and complex universe, please don't let me fall flat on my unprepared face. Please, I have been sacrificing and busting my ass for this moment for six years-- please, please, let me get all my paperwork in on time, and let next semester go as smoothly and brilliantly as possible--

Because if it doesn't... the gun is going back in my mouth.

UN-FUCKING-BELIEVABLE!

So, last week, when we got back from our honeymoon, I had to quickly get online to order my books. I am only taking two classes this semester. This is supposed to be my easy semester-- two classes, no job to balance with homework and on campus meetings. Free time to hang out, to go to events like parties and weddings without having to worry about whether I can get time off or if homework is due. All I have is an online course for my Social Science Methods requirement for secondary education, and math class to fulfill the last two credits I need to finish the teaching program. While the methods book was average in price of what I am used too, the math book was ridiculous, and so I went online to order it. A paperback copy for $60! Awesomely doable! Ordered. Unfortunately a week later, I discovered that I had purchased one of the supplements, and not the text. FUCK! I had less than a week before class started, and I HATE being the kid who has to ask for extra time because the books aren't in yet. In my haste and panic, I ended up having to order the ridiculous book from the bookstore, that at the cheapest cost us $130 just to rent, and thus because of our recent excursion to Wyoming, meant we went negative to pay for my unintended extra expense. I also can't return to supplement book.


On top of this drama,I am not happy, at all, about having to take another math class. Way back at LLCC, in 2006 during my second semester of college I took what I thought would be my last math class. MAT 104- Math for the liberal arts major. Easy, right? One semester and done forever. All I needed for the history program here at UIS was 4 credits. Unfortunately after I finished all of my bachelor credits, and I am just trying to finish up my certification classes, do they inform me that I need 6 credits to the education program. FUCK! Well, I'm over it, and I an begrudgingly taking this class. I get online to register and see MAT 102, College Algebra. It's a freshman class and I am a super senior at UIS, this should be fine for a math illiterate such s myself-- the kind of person who gets so panic attacky when she sees numbers that I freeze up and forget how to count when someone watches me count out change.

Today is the first day of classes, first last day for me, and it's going to be amazing. Everything should be perfect. I get up, shower, apply makeup, and put on my new outfit that I bought, the one that makes me look mature, elegant, sophisticated, and like a teacher candidate-- a hot teacher candidate, mind you. I have no problem finding a parking spot and am the first one in the class room. Yes! First choice in prime seating! I make a few friends as the students pile it. Most of them look like they are barely old enough to be in high school let alone college, and I revel in my maturity and coolness, and adjust my trendy new outfit like I am better than all of these newbians. The teacher seems perfect for me and I relax somewhat that although this class terrifies me, I am sure she is willing to work with me and is committed to making sure we all get this. This might not be absolutely horrible...

Tragedy strikes without warning!

"This is a prepatory class for Calculus for those of you who are majoring in business and computer science, so if you are not required to take calculus after this, you might want to talk to your adviser and see about taking another class."

WHAT!? NO! I am in the wrong class! The very class I lost $60 dollars on ordering the wrong book and went negative to order the right one! YOU HAVE GOT TO BE SHITTING ME! Next thing I know is we're going over notes, and it's like the entire class is a play and I don't know any of the lines. Numbers and variables are flying up on the board and answers are being shouted out. How are they coming to these conclusions!? This is less decipherable than hieroglyphics! I am fucked. Do I even know where the receipt for my book return is? GOD DAMN IT!

I talked to her after class, and we decided that I should go to her Quantitative Reasoning class, which is more of a survey. I mean christ, I just need to dam credits. I gave up being an astronaut for this very reason, and there is no way I can do this math. It's going to be impossible. Plus, I am relieved I won't lose her as my teacher. But first I have to make sure QR isn't too much like my MAT 104 class and will still count. Next thing I know is I am rushing over to talk to the Teacher Education dept to make sure I can take this new class. Luckily, the amazing lady that pretty much runs that dept pulls strings and approves my decision. I run back to my new teacher and tell her all is good in the land of Bekki after all. Crisis averted. She sends me to the dept asst, I get dept approval, and I hustle over to the library to add and drop the classes.

I drive home, knowing I have to be back at 4 for my new math class, hopefully more aligned with the needs of special needs math cases like myself, determined to find my book return receipt. I, Bekki Leber the fucking idiot, tossed it because I always hold on to them and never need to return books. I am always on top of things and I know what classes I need. No. Not this year. Because all the info was conveniently not presented to me, and I was not informed this was a prep track specific class, I am now digging with my bare hands through my trash can-- full of old food, junk mail, coffee grinds, other undesirable oozes and squashed remnants-- is that fucking mold!? I have to wash my hands, excuse me. BLECK! No return slip.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK...

This is the part where I panic and go wake up Wyatt with only four hours of sleep to break down and cry.

I get back online, buy my new book, and accept that I have just lost a collective near $200 on this class. I order my new book and head back to UIS to pick it up, print off some stuff at the library since my printer is dead and I can't get my new parking pass until I have the form, and be at my new math class at 4 pm.

A small victory! While telling my sob story to the ladies in the bookstore while they pick up my new book, I am informed that I can still return my book up until Friday. I don't need the slip because they can print it since I bought it online! THANK YOU MERCIFUL UNIVERSE! Just one small victory, but it makes a few things right. I still lost $60 bucks on the other book, but I can cope with that, I guess, if I have no other choice. OH, rest assured I will bitch about it, at length, whether you want me to or not. But, on the whole, I am heaving a sigh .

But, if someone asks me how my days is going, would it be too melodramatic to say it's approaching one of my worst ever?