an experiment (gone horribly wrong)

Wake up in the morning and send a text to six of my siblings and friends -“the best day ever!”
Their replies: “why?”; “what’s new?”; “are you talking about yesterday or …?”
My replies: can’t remember; they are in the inboxes of the respective people. But they are to the effect of “just because”; “every new day is the best day ever’’; “she is sleeping right next to me, do you want to talk to her? ¡”
One of them even goes  as far as to insinuate “zare qenu des sil bilew endemitsfut aynet mehonu new? ¡”, belittling my little “original” idea.
My response: “Licho!!!!!!!!”
Another one suggests that I am on yeBahir Dar CHat

Then a plate full of my breakfast tumbles over the table. Ever mindful of hygiene, I eat that part of the food which has not touched the ground (microbes hanging on for dear life and shit)
I text the same people again “shit has went down; but it still is the best day ever!”
Them: “sorry, but it does not look that way!”; “dude, slow down!”
Next morning
My glasses get entangled in the straps  of my apron and I am left to rue why I did not take my glasses off before wearing the apron -like I usually do.
The same people are bombarded with a message of the same tone: “my glasses are broken. but it still is the best day ever!”
But my conviction is wavering by then; the letters of my texts are all wavy.
The people: “you on drugs?!”; condolences; taunts; suggestions of optometrists.
No, I am on life, baby!
Checked out the shops, writing this post wearing glasses smeared with Amir.

Spent the day recounting this tale, with special guest appearances from  anecdotes such as,  my unrequited first grade (in both senses of the word) crush on the ninth grader friend of my sister’s; and how it went on to  adversely affect  my love life for years to come; and how I ended up cooking scrambled eggs for myself  (I would like to believe that I am a feminist btw), my uniform breaking my glasses in the process; and how the name of my crush is Mestawot …

I just hope that my ordeals have ended, at least for the time being. Assuming bad things (and good things) come in threes, that’s  three mishaps on the trot, counting the shoes on fire.

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