As traffic crawls past the bus stop, I’m overwhelmed by a surge of desperate gratitude—for my car, for the credit card I’ll use at McDonald’s, for my low-interest mortgage, for decades of regular dental care, for my college degree in two impractical subjects, for my husband’s ability to pay our bills while I try to shoot the moon, for my naive ideas about “normal,” for my ability to shrug and think, Fuck Darryl.
