Letter from a Bad Day

Dear Diarist,

I am the day you so thoughtlessly labelled “bad,” as if I were inferior to other days. You were blaming and shaming me, and I don’t like being made to feel negative about myself. I mean, you didn’t even notice half of me, you only focussed on the bad moments. You were asleep for about a third of my hours—either that or trying to be, and blaming me because of your insomnia. Your insomnia was yours, not mine.

You chose to spend several of the other hours with unpleasant people—but why blame me for the bad-ness of them? You ate rotting food and called me bad just because the food was spoiled. How is that fair?

Sure, you lost your keys, ran out of toilet paper, and got a speeding ticket, but those things happen on rather a lot of days. Don’t blame me for your careless habits. While we’re at it, you have a habit of blaming the day for your bad hair. Like it was a Tuesday or a Thursday that cut your hair.

Why blame a day for bad things that happen on it? Is the 5th inherently more blame-worthy than the 21st? A March day worse than a September day over on the opposite side of the calendar? Everybody hates Monday of course, though it’s not Monday’s fault society decided to start the work week on it. Everybody thanks God for Friday, but Friday hasn’t been particularly pious or deserving of divine protection. It seems like arbitrary favoritism if you ask me. 

Sunday is historically accused of being boring of course, but that’s on you, not the day. Be interesting if you don’t want to be bored. I won’t stop you, I’m just a day.

So once and for all, stop projecting your shortcomings onto me whenever you’re not happy with yourself—or with Fate, or Life, or something that is not my responsibility. I’m just a span of 24 hours. And each hour is equal.


Your “Bad Day” ❏

Flora Jardine writes stories, plays and humorous satire from the west coast of Canada.


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