It’s a Tuesday morning, I am twenty-one years old, and the skin around my eyes is red from bawling. I am standing on the sidewalk staring at my stupid, fucked-up car, which is very quickly becoming a terrible symbol for my stupid, fucked-up life.
Okay, yes, I know—I was being super dramatic. BUT if there was ever a time I earned the right to drama, it was that day, that moment when my ten-year-old Hyundai Sonata shuddered to an unexpected stop in the middle of the street on its way to my as-of-fourteen-hours-ago ex-boyfriend’s house to pick up my things. In the seconds between my car’s sudden stop and the beginning of my frantic scream-cries of “No, no, NO!” I made the decision that I was going to let the incident completely absorb and ruin my life.