This is a weird way to set the tone for this blog, but it’s one of those days.

Around 3:00pm I got a text from Chase warning me that my balance of -$9,000 is below my $250 limit. Thanks, Chase, for the update. It took me 10 minutes to find the right number to call, and another 15 on the phone prove that I am me, with questions about the state in which my SSN was issued. A delighted state that new life has entered the world?

After being transferred three times, no one can give me an answer as to why there is a hold on my account, how it gives me negative balance, whether or not I will be penalized or if I can use even my card, and that my only option is to go back to the branch where I deposited the check.

I quickly fall back on a skill I have learned working as a nanny for fancy families: I start swearing. Wildly. I say “This is fucking ridiculous” no less than six times, demand to know, “Who is going to fix this?!” and end the call by yelling “God dammit, shit, fuck, fuck, fuck.” It’s quarter past 4, and if I want this resolved, I need to leave now.

Do I even want this resolved? I have no urgent need to use my debit card in the 7 business days they have told me it will take to remove the hold. In my head I’m asking myself how these people can dare to take precious minutes out of my day, forcing me to leave my house and walk 6 blocks to the bank. I’m unemployed, and when I received the text 45 minutes ago I was making myself a wall calendar as a way to relax, tracing over a meticulously measured grid in blue sharpie. But for some reason I’m livid.

As I cross Graham Ave I make the decision to cry once I’m done at the bank. As soon as I’m outside, I can cry, but until then I need to be pissed. The red hand blinks at me as I cross the street without waiting for the red van turning into the lane to pause for me. The young man behind the wheel says softly, but loud enough for me to hear:

“Get out of the middle of the street, bitch.”

Not today, my friend. I’m fucking pissed. I’m going to do whatever the fuck I want today.

“Hey,” I yell. “Fuck you.”

He looks at me, across the street now and yells back, “Suck my dick.”

“Suck my dick, you dick!” I call back, in front of an older woman holding the hand of a child. The entire street stares at me, and I march on, worried this guy might turn right back around and want to fight me. I think about how I’ll fight back, I don’t care if he’s got a knife or a gun, I’ll go down swinging. I don’t take shit. I was just on the phone for 20 minutes with a bank. I’m allowed to be pissed.

I can feel my resolve fading. Maybe I’m not allowed to be this mean.

This isn’t the first time I’ve yelled at a stranger at twilight. Last January, riding my bike home on a Thursday night, a car full of boys swerved at me and yelled to frighten me. I stopped short just missing a parked car and yelled at them, “Fuck you, you fucking mother fuckers,” before bursting into tears.

Then, last May on the way to a birthday party, I was crossing the street looking at my phone when a car honked at me. Logically, I flipped off the car in question, and was answered with a woman yelling, “Get of your phone, bitch.”

“You’re the bitch, you fucking bitch!” I yelled back, as I arrived at the end of the crosswalk. The six or seven people waiting to cross there eyed me, but I laughed it off, asking, “Haven’t you ever had one of those days?”

They all had.

As it turns out, my trip to the bank was useless. My hemming and hawing on the phone had resulted in the hold being removed without needing to visit the branch. I burst into tears when the teller told me, and had wrap my scarf around my face to hide my craziness once I got outside. Why should being a bitch to an innocent bank employee work?

So, I am using my first blog post as a public apology to today. Sorry, Chase supervisor Lisa, and rude van driver. It’s just been one of those days.