A plan is a list of things that don’t happen

I spent half an hour last night with my snotty, tear-covered face pressed into my coffee table as I wailed out my frustrations, fears, and failures to the universe. The cats paced around me in disdainful concern while I filled a bandana with significantly more than regret. I confessed my anger and confusion until there wasn’t anything left. Then, in the stillness of the passing storm, I whispered for guidance that I wasn’t sure would come.

All because a self-published author whom I respect (lo...