Last Friday was crap. Pure, unadulterated crap. No, I am not talking about doomsday and Donald Drumpf being sworn into office, although it did not help that the Anti-Christ became the leader of the free world. I had a disastrous, rom-com worthy day. (It didn’t end with Ryan Gosling sweeping me off of my feet, so maybe it can't be qualified as a rom-com -- more of a satire of my life?)

Let me tell you something. We are about to embark on an embarrassing and cringe-worthy journey together, so there are a few things you should know. For starters, writing is my absolute passion and I am always looking for opportunities of growth. Second, I know diddly squat about cars. Third, in times of crisis, my mind shuts off and my body acts purely on instinct. Last but not least (and probably most detrimental to my life), I completely do not understand boys, even though most of my friends are guys.

Fridays are normally the greatest day of my week. I wake up at the crack of noon due to that fact that I don’t have classes. As a woman of habit, I got up, jammed out in the shower, narrowly escaping death when I bumped too hard to "Bad and Boujee," slapped on some makeup and called it good. Ecstatic for my Skype meeting with fellow Content Creators at Odyssey, I logged onto my email to double check if I needed anything before we got together to discuss future article ideas, how to generate more views and all that good stuff. Notebook, check; pen, check; log in at 2 p.m. Eastern Time. My gut sunk to the inner core of the Earth. I checked the clock and hoped that somehow time magically jumped back because 2 p.m. Eastern Time is 11 a.m. Pacific Time. You guessed it: Time doesn’t work like that.

I felt so dumb. I grabbed my jaw off the floor, my keys off the wall and stormed out. I will let you in on a little secret: There is no problem in the world that a long drive down the gorgeous Chuckanut Drive in North Western Washington State cannot solve. Sitting down in my trusty steed of a Subaru, I placed my foot on the brake and pushed the start button. Nothing, nada, nil, zilch, zip. I had left the freaking dome light on for days. Rationally, I flagged down a police officer who then jumped my car while my roommates and I stared in wonder. Regrettably, I cracked the joke. "Wow. I probably should have paid more attention in Driver's Ed." Honestly, I have no idea where my parents went so wrong, resulting in raising the biggest dumb ass on the planet.

I zipped down Chuckanut, appreciating the moss-covered bridges, tunnels created by trees bending over the road, and the breathtaking view of the bay melting into the horizon. I returned home hours later after finding peace and a craving for Amy's vegan pizza. As the oven preheated, I danced around the living room, irritating my roommates like I do every night until they vote and kick me off the island. The oven squawked at me, letting me know it has reached 425 degrees. Amped, I opened the oven to place my orgasmically delicious pizza inside. I was met with a billowing, black cloud of smoke. For no apparent reason, I sprint to the back door and open it as the fire alarm starts screaming bloody murder. I then scream back and open my front door and then my hands appear out of nowhere wearing oven mittens, holding a cookie sheet with burning something on it and suddenly, they are tossing this pan onto our front porch. Now all of the people who told me I would hate the rain when I moved to Bellingham, Washington, can go bury their heads in the sand because that rain became a hero in my eyes that night.

I pretty much decided to quit at that point. Sure, it was 6 p.m., but it is never too early to retire to the couch. My roommates are awesome and joined me and we did nothing except intensely watch "Alice Through the Looking Glass." Then I get a text. The "we need to talk" text that only jerks send instead of telling you to your face. I informed my roommates and we did what all girls starring in Hallmark movies do: We laid on the ground and talked it over. After throwing a lot of shade his way, we dissipated and went to bed.

Saturday rolled around and I pouted on my couch all morning. Feeling pretty lame, I decided to go blow an unnecessarily large amount of money at Target. The therapeutic shopping really just did not work because the entire store was Valentine's Day-themed. Not cool. I then hit up the entire crew with a "wyd" and was informed that we are playing 2K, which, apparently, is a video basketball game that I "gotta try."

Because I am an attention whore, I walk into The Guys' house and announce my misfortunes. I received what every drama queen loves: Laughter, sympathy, and rage. Seriously, nothing feels better than when your friends threaten to beat the crap out of a dude for you. Of course, they aren't being serious, but when a plethora of guys over six feet tall offer to stomp on someone for you, it feels pretty good.

I realized in that moment how incredibly lucky I am. Sure, Friday sucked, but Saturday, I had an incredible group of people who were willing to listen to my misfortunes, laugh with me, offer me a shoulder, and donate money to hire a hit man. Without these people, I honestly have no idea where I would be. They are loyal, kind, funny and genuine. Every single one of the people I am fortunate enough to call my friends posses the ability to turn a crappy day into a day full of love and friendship. I don’t think I will ever be able to express how grateful I am. All I know is at this point, I am the luckiest person on the planet.

Thank you, peeps, for all that you do for me. I don't say that nearly as often as I should. Let's be real. I probably would be failing at life without all of you. You are encouraging, supportive and loyal. No matter what situation I face, I know that you will always be rooting for me. Without such incredible friends by my side, I wouldn't have the courage to go for nearly as many opportunities without you encouraging me to go for it. I know that I always have you to fall back on and I owe you so much. Thank you, and I love you!