There are no perfect days.
Today is definitely proof positive of that.
Boss man decides to demote me today, for something that happened when I was not even on the SITE, which means my nice paycheck is about to get even smaller. And Anya stormed out of my place this morning because I forgot it was the anniversary of the first time we something or another. To be perfectly honest, I wasn't really listening. So, the gift that she informed me I had better bring home is now completely out of the question. Which means my loving, caring, devoted girlfriend is no longer speaking to me until I bring her "copious presents".
The car broke down. Again. And when I went to go pop the hood to see what was wrong, oil shot out and completely ruined the shirt that was the last birthday present my parents got me.
I've somehow managed to bounce three checks, which is odd considering I threw away my checkbook when I got my debit card in the mail. But I have a suspicion that a certain flaccid bleached blonde is behind that.
And to top it all off, the power is off in my building.
Add all these things together, and you have one Xander Harris ranting at the semi-deflated beach ball I'm using as a couch cushion.
It's not like I'm asking for every day to be wonderful. Cause that would just not be of the good. All I want is one perfect day. But those don't exist.
Aww, hell. I'm getting maudlin. Note to self: Thank Giles for the word of the day calendar. Maybe a shower would help.
Well, perhaps the shower would have helped if I had remembered that the hot water heater operated off of electricity.
At least I have all the motor oil out of my hair. Of course, I ended up getting shampoo in my eyes and I slipped on the soap, but after the rest of my day, I guess that's to be expected. I really shouldn't complain, though. Especially since-
The electricity's back on. Hmmm. Odd. I distinctly remember leaving the radio off this morning. I've gotten rather careful about that since I've gotten some flak from my neighbors from my taste in music. Yeah, listening to Anya and me argue is fine, but evidently the smooth stylings of the Rat Pack are a little too much. Philistines.
But those goobers aren't home, so me listening to Sinatra is fine. Which is good, because I really love this song.
Okay, there is a package on my coffee table that I am *positive* was not there when I left for work this morning. And since it's nowhere near any recognizable holiday, I'm thinking that this might be a bad thing. Man, if this is some sort of internal organ, I'm gonna be mightily upset.
There's a note. And a little something or another wrapped up in last Sunday's comics.
I know it's not your seventh birthday, but better late than never, right? I saw this and thought of you.
With my curiosity totally piqued, I tear open the package.
And start to cry.
Wills got me a fire truck, with Charlie Brown driving and Snoopy and Woodstock are hanging off the ladder.
There aren't any perfect days, but now I'm pretty damn sure there are some perfect moments.
I remember once, when I was feeling really desperate, that I thought there were no perfect days.
But now I look across the room, and see my wife lying on the floor in front of the fireplace. She's eight months pregnant, and my son is running a small fire truck over her swollen stomach.
I was wrong. There are some perfect days.