Her grandfather told her that decades back, when he’d tried to teach his baby brother how to swim, he’d just thrown him into the deep and the pure shock of it had forced him to learn. That could be a metaphor, right?
Some dream of white weddings and happily ever after. Others just hope and pray there will be a phase where one doesn’t have to breathe through a paper bag half the time.
Either she failed when trying to put the little pieces together, or she got that part right but then misinterpreted the bigger meaning. She should be entitled to special aid,
like other dyslectics.
Her therapist has a prosthetic hand. She knows she should focus on staying in her fears and reaching out to her inner child and stuff, but that hand is very distracting.
It’s the little flaws and cracks that make a person interesting. (Or defected.)
There’s the big box of Kleenex for your convenience and of course the fact that you pay a complete stranger by the hour to be your mate. It’s like a brothel for your emotions.
“Dear God, I realize you’ve probably got your hands full with war and famine and HIV and stuff, but I’m trying to deal with otherworldly perfection here so if you could find the time to at the least remove this ginormous pimple of mine it would be much appreciated. Thanks. Amen. PS. Also, please send someone to fix my oven and I promise to be much more supportive of your business. Amen.”
It should be with people like with cars. Just turn the crap in and say “Fix this!”
and then go for a coffee while your shit is taken care of.