But, for the life of me, how come the sucky days unfairly outnumber the badass days? It’s as if everything that can go wrong gets lined up and scheduled in one day, on a thirty-minute interval? I try not to be as emotional as possible: when I was young I didn’t cry on recollections, I didn’t cry when Jack froze to death and sank in the ocean, and I didn’t cry during a book-bashing fight with a school bully during elementary days (he cried by the way).
At 26 (or 27 in a dozen more days), I should be more mature, my confidence should be at its peak, and my strength should be boundless. But lately I find myself asking the Three Weavers of Fate if they can at least, please, consider throwing things at me one at a time. If only my head were as strong as the guy on the right, I would be probably be doing the same thing a few days in a row.