An already grumpy Henry struggled this morning to put on his clothes. He has a tiny, almost invisible scrape on his thumb, which he explains makes doing even the smallest tasks impossible. He whined about pulling on his shorts, and made sounds I can only describe as air squeaking from a pinched balloon nozzle as he squeezed into his socks.
Henry: Oh, man! My shirt is inside out!
He picks it up and looks at it.
Henry: Oh, it's not. I guess this isn't the worst day of my entire life.