Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, gather ’round your newspaper and lend me your eyes, for I have a story to top all stories. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll thank your respective deities for picking on me instead of you.

My alarm clock sounded on a calm Thursday morning. I swiftly struck the snooze button. It was an abrasive, yet typical response to my wake-up call. The day began just like all the others before it, and for my first 10 minutes of consciousness, my actions remained remarkably unremarkable.

I strolled out of my Somerville apartment about five minutes later than usual, but I thought nothing of it at the time. Behind me lay my warm bed and feather pillows, ahead of me lay an hour long commute through Storrow Drive.

As I continued on my way, I was brought to a halt by four different traffic accidents along my route. I watched the minutes wind down and my gas light grow brighter. I made it to Columbus with one minute to spare before my first class began, complete with an exam. I ran into the classroom and took my seat. It was 10 minutes before I realized that I was not surrounded by my usual classmates or, for that matter, my usual teacher. I looked up and saw the announcement on the board that my room had been changed to a building across campus. I slowly packed up my things, so not to attract too much attention to myself, and I walked out of the room with a minimal amount of dignity in tact.

I pulled out of the garage and made my way to the gas station at the end of the street. As I turned into the pump, I was cut off by a Volkswagen, causing me to make a wide turn and run straight into a small pole next to the pump. I exited my vehicle a bit frazzled, to say the least, and examined the new scratches on my bumper. When I had finished pumping my gas I returned to my car only to find that my keys were sitting on the passenger seat, surrounded by four locked doors. At this point I was ready to scream. Instead, I made my way to the gas station window, where the woman at the counter offered me her cell phone to call for help. I was in the middle of my frantic call to my mother when the woman interrupted and said, “Wait, let me call the guy next door. He’s really good with cars.”

My car window was then violated, to put it lightly, by a man with two screwdrivers coercing my door to unlock with the persuasive phrase:

“Come to Papi, baby, Papi’s waiting.”

My drive back to Somerville began normally, but ended with a bang (further reading will reveal the nature of this pun). With a little help from a broken traffic light, I sat in my car, 100 yards from my front door, for 25 minutes waiting for the light to change while rush hour traffic hissed past me. The light had caused a back up of traffic for the next three intersections and, of course, I had to turn left. I sat with my blinker on for another 20 minutes waiting for the traffic to clear a hole big enough to fit my SUV through. I finally spotted my opportunity and made a break for it. But before I could fully squeeze through, my body was thrust forward by the force of the car behind me slamming into my back bumper. I calmly leaned out my window, took one look at the guy who hit me, gave him the one finger wave and continued on my way. Finally, I pulled into my parking spot, opened my front door, dropped to my knees and kissed the ground beneath me.

This was a day that I would like to forget, but doubt I ever will. I think a friend in the military put it best when he said, “I have bad days in Iraq, but they’re never that bad.”

I woke up the next morning and smiled at my alarm clock. Its wretched beeping was music to my ears. I thanked the clock for waking me to a new day because I knew that this day would have to be better than the last.

— Anna Exner is a sophomore journalism major.