Something fouls up.
You hear your boss is disappointed.
Pimples show up and decided they'd love to stay in your face for over two weeks.
You can't go back just yet to your Friday-place because you're hiding from someone.
An article is three weeks overdue.
A friend you work with is a mere push away but you don't talk anymore.
You realize you haven't danced for over five months.
A ship capsizes, hundreds trapped, and it's all a news story until you've talked to families whose eyes are blank. Lost fails miserably as a description.
Then you remember talking to your father's colleague and how you jokingly used the term MIA, "yes, dear Sir, he IS missing in action."
This one man who can calm you down is reduced to occassional emails.
You review your accumulated photo albums and realize there's no album of you and your family together.
You tiptoe, hide in a comfort room, afraid they'd say you've gone bonkers again and can't handle whatever conventions are attached to maturity.
But seriously, who's to say which is correct and which is not.
You sit, close your eyes, and congratulate yourself for being able to keep a sober week, and then someone always manages to pull the plug, and you wake up after a well-deserved, straight six hours of sleep, holding back tears because someone,
someone always manages to hurt you.