The Little Things That Get You Down

I finished zipping the back of my dress and began blundering around the room with all the grace of a disemboweled unicorn.
Yeah, it was one of those days.
I stared down at the crisp white fabric and couldn’t help but think of all the potential disasters it beckoned. I was a black hole of clumsiness, gravitationally attracting ill luck and useless debris like nobody’s business. Except it was somebody’s. Mine.
I found my handbag and shuffled through it.
Lucky euro from my trip to France two years ago: check. Cigarettes: check. I lit one and inhaled deeply. Band-Aids: no check. There were a few on my desk, so I threw them in. Band-Aids: check. I was probably going to papercut myself on the contract, and I didn’t want to ruin a $500 dress.
I sucked another lungful of smoke. I decided I needed a coping mechanism that didn’t include lung cancer, so I dropped the cigarette onto the already ash-stained rug and ground it out, fire hazard be damned.
I stared at my awful shoes.
Was I really making the right decision?

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