I occasionally feel pretty good about myself.
I look at my life and I feel proud of my accomplishments, my job, my relationships and friendships. I feel confident about my life and my choices, and I start to really enjoy my life and where I am in it.
Then the universe hears me and feels my content and takes a baseball bat full of nails right to my tits and self esteem.
I think I’ve made good calls with my life, and then I think, “Sure, let’s go on a drive through the beautiful scenery of the Ozarks! Let’s see the leaves and enjoy ourselves for one whole Friday on our own! Let’s reward ourselves.”
And then I wake up that morning at 5 am after partying on Halloween and my dog has thrown up fucking everywhere because she ate some candy someone threw in your backyard and I didn’t see it happen. I cry for an hour while I call my Vet sister and I pray my dog is okay and also that she won’t fucking throw up anymore.
You take her to the vet that morning and find out she’s fine. They give her some medication and tell her she’s clear to do anything–even go on the short roadtrip you had planned. Go on ahead–have fun!
And then I spend half the day shirtless behind a church in Arkansas getting dog poop hosed off me and my brand-new sweatshirt by my well-meaning but still laughing husband. And I cry and wonder why bad things happen just when I’m looking up on life.
And then I realize the church is on Reba McEntire Lane.
And that’s when I give up.