In the last year (almost) my most-used phrase has become, “well, it could be worse.” My life turned into a series of unfortunate events, except I’m no orphan and there’s no Count Olaf out to murder/marry/pilfer from me. I still knew I was fortunate and figured maybe the universe was trying to teach me a lesson in looking on the bright side.
But at some point the parent emergency surgery, subsequent parent recovery, selfish sibling, story rejection, working my butt off only to produce piss-poor fiction, stress-inducing freelance, stubborn adult acne (???), other parent’s illness, trifling in-law, conveniently hard-of-hearing husband, whining kids, financial woes, days-long blackout, flooded basement, ruined treasures, family fighting, insurance company shennanigans, superbug holding my family’s immune system ransom, and inability to write anything I’m satisfied with… well, it must have gotten to me.
So much so that when a green crayon made it into the dryer and ruined a load of laundry yesterday, I could only conclude: