“Do you Like this?” You ask.
You’re holding out a dress of elegant purple, floor length with a fitted bodice that hugs the torso like that of mountaineers to the cliff face.
A thousand and one thoughts race through my mind, the first of which is ‘Are you playing with me?’
There’s no way you’re going to let me have. It’s a ploy.
So instead I turn away and say no. I go pick out something looser, something I do not like, and you are happy. I’m happy... on the outside.
I am called bitter and cold because I “don’t like”, when in true I admire everything that pass in front of me.
I just don’t say lest Murphy hear and take it away. He has laid his law down.
He gawk at my audacity to outwardly desire something and then cause a hurricane just so I can’t get it. Or just so I have to fight that much harder than the next person to have it
I have no idea why he hate me in particular. I just know that if I want or need anything I count on having to endure a Hell storm to obtain it. Anything and everything will go wrong.
I find solace in knowing I won’t always be tormented by him. He is kind to those who carry the presidents in their pockets.
Until I reach such a point in my life where I too am pals with Ben Franklin, I must carry on. I have to carry on.