Dear Life,

You have a way of pretending to be so good and pretty and perfect on magazines and social media, but you’re a bit of a bitch, really, aren’t you?

Yes, there will be days, weeks, months, years, when your acidity gets to me and I feel so weak, I could faint, when I swallow tears while forcing a smile on my face, or breathe so deep through my belly, I could puke, but I will still enjoy my first coffee on the balcony listening to the birds at dawn, and love to pet and feed the stray cats following me home in the evening.

You can throw pain and heartbreak at me all you want, but I will still notice the majestic owl flying overhead, the flower considered weed blooming through man-made concrete, the full moon and the falling stars shining through pollution.

I know you end in death, I’ve seen it too many times to ignore reality, but although I call a kitten my granddaughter, I’m planning on meeting my actual grandchildren, and I have a book to edit and publish, and I have travels planned with my love of twenty-nine years, and when I make a plan, I follow through.

Keep your fucking lemons and go make your own fucking lemonade if you like it so much. I’d rather have a beer.