dunce decisions and others’ missteps—Wish I could just throw it away. Toss it in the trash like a….. 

No second chances, no rewashing, no “maybe I can still get some use out of this.” Just gone.  

But that’s not how it works, is it? You can’t just chuck a bad mood in the bin and slip into something sans tarnish or bend, dent, scratch. No, you have to sit with it. Stew counterclockwise, and again. Walk around all day with your emotional exposures reaching through the ragged circles.  

And that’s where happiness—the real, louder kind—comes in. Not as a replacement but as a counterweight. Knowing that even on the most bleh of days, there’s still something delicious. Something shining. Something that’s a communicative music for you.  

Maybe it’s love. Maybe it’s purpose. Maybe it’s just the promise of better socks. Whatever it is, I want more of it. I want to collect it the way some people collect postcards or parking tickets.  

And I want to wear it every goddamn day.