There is an old saying that goes “tragedy strikes when you least expect it to.” Well, it’s not really an old saying but it is true. Imagine life as you know it, your perfect house, perfect bed, and perfect silk sheets. Yeah, perfect right, until life decides to strike anyway. Imagine it, you’re lying in bed, fifteen minutes past midnight and it happens. You know what happens, I mean you know what happens when you’re the most comfortable you’ve ever been, or at least more comfortable than you have been, having a week of nothing but an emotional train wreck. That week, the previous week you spent in a daze with ice cream and tears, your favorite romantic movie, stuffing your face with pizza and crying even more because you feel fat after eating but cannot help but stuff your gluten free, organic vegetable pizza in your face.
That week passed and finally you could build yourself up again. You wiped the grease stained tears out of your eyes, tore up the pizza box so it would fit in your trashcan, and changed out of your “to sad to live this way” pajamas. You spent the next hour perfecting your bed, making sure the fitted sheet was the same color as the flat sheet which had to be tucked in forming a perfect triangle fold your grandmother taught you. With the bed made you had built up enough confidence to make that weekly pact that tomorrow, yes tomorrow, you would start exercising to burn off the large pizza you consumed in just under thirty minutes. You spend the rest of your day picking through the carpet, much like an ape picks through their young’s fur looking for lice, but you’re not looking for lice. You’re picking up pieces of hair that has accumulated over the past month, and yes you realize it has been one full month since you’ve done this exact thing.
You can’t quite put your finger on something you seemed to have forgotten, something that feels like it’s on the edge of your tongue, and unfortunately you shake the feeling. That’s right, within thirty minutes you’ve completely forgotten, your brain immersed in the newest romantic drama unfolding on your solitary six hour Netflix and Chill session. You had crawled into bed, wearing your “sexy shorts” that make you feel on top of the world, and snuggled up to a warm cup of detox tea that your best friend swore was good for you. Not a care in the world, you go to sleep and that’s when it happened. Again I say, you know what happened and that’s right, you guessed it; Mother Nature/Tragedy struck.
That glorious moment, that oh-so-glorious moment you wake up in the A.M. and well, you’re not quite sure at first why. You keep your eyes shut right, like every sane person who sleeps a solid eight hours would, but for some reason you are completely, undeniably, awake. You lay still and imagine you’re back in your Netflix romance dream, but you can’t sleep and you decided to do the worst possible thing; turn over. That’s when the horror strikes, sending a bolt of terror though your body so fast you freeze and feel an ungodly, unethical, feeling. For one brief moment, anger flooded your body and you start asking the guy upstairs why he hated you for, as you put it, “allowing the gates of Hell to open.” And yes, by gates you mean flood gates. Then that question runs through your head, the one that asks you if you need to get up slow, fast, or look at your sheets first and your reply is always to do all three in whatever order keeps the gates closed long enough to make it to the bathroom—and you run.