As I write this column, my feet and ankle region feels like a frigid 32 degrees. Due to my refusal to sport the ever-so-fashionable Ugg boots and my ineptitude when it comes to avoiding three-foot-deep puddles on the sidewalk, my jeans are soaked clear to the midpoint of my stumpy calves. On the floor, my soaking wet, kelly green Chucks are symbolic of the gross day I've had. They've been rendered useless at the moment, and one can only hope I don't cap off one 12-hour shitfest with a raging case of hepatitis or tapeworm acquired by frolicking barefoot through the nasty newsroom. Melodramatic as I may sound — hey, I'm the Arts Editor, it comes with the territory — today is one of those days that seems straight out of fiction. By fiction, I mean out of a children's classic, none other than one of my elementary favorites: "Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good Very Bad Day." Alexander got gum stuck in his red hair, splashed water on his favorite sweater and tripped on a skateboard, and that was enough to make him want to relocate to Australia. Me — I'm an all-around mess, as of hours ago a "real person" jobless bum, and all I want to do is make a playlist. I used to be the type who served troubling days with a heaping spoonful of "Hanson therapy," a remedy of nothing but the androgynous band of brothers' sugary sweet "MmmBop" on repeat until the bad mood had been exercised from my body. Gradually, I moved into an Eminem diet, preferring instead to embrace my pissed off mood — down with the world and my bitch mother (not really, sorry Mom). Now I'd like to go one better. It has been said, and quoted in many a MySpace page, "The problem with reality is a lack of background music." I revel in making a good, random playlist, so I'm hoping crafting a little suckfest soundtrack is just the ticket to easing the sting of one horrible, no good, very bad day. If you feel so inclined, grab your iPod and play along — it could be fun. Just to set the mood, and usher in an inner montage of the events of the day, queue up Daniel Powter's "Bad Day." Let us press play. 8:21 a.m. — I had originally set my alarm for 6:30 a.m., but in a tired stupor, I must have turned it off. I was supposed to be at work at eight, so in a panic, I contemplate hurrying and getting there by 8:45, but then decide otherwise. I take up my mirror and gasp — I've awoken with the skin of a 13-year-old. I look like Puff Daddy — no, Kelly Clarkson — in a ProActive infomercial. Enter Clarkson's "Because of You" at the point where the "Idol" songstress hits the powerful bridge section. Instead of blaming my father for my troubles, I'm instead serenading the minefields on my chin. Oh, what I wouldn't give to hear "You're Beautiful" by James Blunt. Wait, no … that's just a lie. 10:08 a.m. — I rush out of the house for the library, and instead of taking the beaten path, I take the road less traveled, scaling a mountain of snow piled at the back of a parking lot. I, of course, slip and fall on my ass ("Wipeout") and slide down, hoping there are no spectators. I saunter off, snow still all over my rear end. 10:42 a.m. — Presentation at 11, I rush to print articles at College Library. The printer moves at the speed of a sloth, then jams — intro to "Under Pressure" stuck on repeat, as the paper remains idle in the feeder. 1:57 p.m. — Power lecture about the United Nations is starting to drag ("Charlie Brown" teacher noises). I struggle to stay awake, but by some grace of God, class ends early. Cue clapping, followed by the bold onset of "I Want to Break Free," as I shoot out of my seat and rush out the door to Starbucks ("Percolator" playing along as I fast-walk, arms pumped on the beat). 2:01 p.m. — Guzzling all the caffeine I can as I navigate through puddles, I'm too wrapped up in my mocha to notice a patch of ice. I trip, quickly recover but somehow manage to spill mocha all over my knees. "Debbie Downer" theme crescendos in, extreme close-up on my pained face. End scene. 2:17 p.m. — Passing time until I have to go to work, I seek refuge in the library computer lab, incessantly checking my e-mail all the while. I'm waiting for notification of an actual real-person job. FINALLY, it shows up in my inbox. Queen rears their ugly head again as I open the electronic message: "Another One Bites the Dust." After careful consideration, I will not be offered a position. I'm no longer on the fast track to becoming a real person. A vision of living in my parents' basement flashes into my mind (enter: "Psycho" shower song.) 2:18 p.m. — REM's "Everybody Hurts" on constant stream. I'm a failure. I hate losing. 6:42 p.m. — My co-worker and I take the Herald car to go get food. Upon our return, he parks next to a snow mountain. Blinded by hunger, I attempt to exit the car and experience an avalanche as I sink into the pile. He does little to save me, instead throwing a snowball at me as I flounder actions only worthy of one thing. "99 Problems," anyone? 9:45 p.m. — Finally done with my column, and there is only one thing left to do. Righteous Brothers "You've Lost That Loving Feeling" kicks in, not for any symbolic purposes. I just like the song. It's my No. 1 most played iTune and in heavy rotation on my "Old Songs That Make Me Happy" playlist. What, I like "Top Gun." Still a jobless bum with cold feet, but I'm on the road to recovery. Ashley Voss is a senior majoring in journalism. Just like Daniel Powter, she's had a bad day. E-mail her at [email protected].