STRAP ON IN.
Hard difficult agonizingly painful type of day. Pain can do that to a perfectly alluring azure-toned first-rate southern-cali de rigueur kind of day. It can turn Paradise into Death Valley and throw you in the middle of the 405 on a Friday before a holiday while doing it. And if your buddy Pain is located in your head then you can also look forward to some liberal doses of stupidity while driving that freeway to hell. Expect to make some wrong turns and smack into a lot of superfluous bullshit along the way. Expect the road of your psyche to be littered with various has-been catch phrases and slogans on gargantuan billboards every other blink that even your socially retarded pal "Dude" wouldn't dare utter. Expect litter, and smelly litter at that. Old RC cans, hairless Barbie's, unmatched Keds and Vans, handmade swimming suits (used, of course), old skin you peeled from the all-over sunburn of last summer and saved, dirt, roll-on glitter that smells like old cheese, underwear (not yours), and lots of mold that attracts those small, irritating moths in the shape of wood slivers that die in a puff of dust. And as you are hurdled mercilessly across this tumultuous landscape you hear the distant calls of your cohorts beckoning you to join them as they dip into the smooth, lustrous folds of social escapism and crying you try to twist against the force grasping you and begin to flop around like a puppet in a child's hand, every limb flailing and contorting while they move steadily away whispering and laughing. Helpless you struggle but this only sends you deeper into the stream of suffering and a moment too late you realize you have just registered for a room at the Misery Suites. Welcome. Your day may have ended, but your stay has just begun.