Yesterday was kind of shit for me. Not big shit, just little shit. Ups and downs, and pesky annoyances; first it rains, then it's sunny and too hot for my sweater, but I didn't bring a t-shirt. I read and read, and feel like I've gotten nowhere. NOWHERE. I get a headache.
Around mid-morning I got accidentally cc'd on an email I wasn't supposed to get. It was nothing horrible, nothing mean, but it was a sharp reminder of a time and a series of events that was then, and is still now, I guess, pretty hurtful and painful for me. You know how sometimes you're cruising along, twiddling your thumbs, humming a tune, and then all of the sudden something random will trigger a memory and WHAM! Next thing you know it's another time, another place, and you're feeling things you thought you'd put behind you. I hate it when that happens. It makes me feel so... I don't know. Unevolved, I guess.
The rest of the day kind of chugged along. It coughed and spluttered, but still kept moving forward. I went and got my hair done and it looked really cute. I still had a headache, but before I knew it, I was starting to feel a little better, a little more like, hey, this day wasn't so bad, after all! (chirp chirp! twitter twitter!)
Then I found out that I didn't win a prize I'd been nominated for. I know, go cry a river. I was nominated for a prize for the best Master's Thesis in the History Department for this year, and I didn't win. Poor little Cheastypants, how do you stand the pain, the sheer agony of being you? Oh, wailing, oh moaning, oh gnashing of teeth, oh, rending of garments. Oh, sackcloth and ashes. Well, fine. I can make fun of myself till the cows come home, but I still felt kind of poopy. And to make it worse, I couldn't even hate the winner in a petty and vindictive way because he's my good friend and a great historian. It couldn't have gone to a better guy.
You know what made it all better? My sister. I was lying on the couch counting the beats per minute of the eye tic I'd developed over the course of the day, and wondering idly if my headache could get so bad that my head might actually fall off my shoulders. And if that happened, would I mind? Then Umulu came home. "Hi!" she said, and chattered merrily on about her great day, but boy was she tired, and so ready for bed, just needing to buzz out for a while, and my heart sank. "No!" I cried on the inside. "Don't go to bed! I need you to pet my head and count the ways you love me!" And somehow Umulu looked at me, and this is why sisters are the greatest. When I said, "Ok, good night," (and I swear that's what came out of my mouth), she heard my insides say, "No! I need you to pet my head and count the ways you love me!" So she did. She sat on the couch and petted my head and told me how much she loves me, and then she fed me ice cream.
Having sisters kicks ass.