My Cardboard Balcony

Self-Esteem by Belinda Roddie Funny how you build a cottage over the years, just to see it easily dismantled by a simple wind or doubtful quake beneath your feet. The bricks shudder, dust falling from their rusty faces, their brows contorting in pain as the cracks form along their craggy jawlines, and you are confronted with the question, "Shit, does my house have a strong enough foundation, or is it constructed on nothing but limestone?"

Within the same day, I had been nearly killed by an oncoming maniac in an SUV, served a terrible sandwich at the local diner, and accused of speeding by a bumbling police officer who couldn't see the difference between 25 and 30. By the time I got home, I was tired, cranky, and unwilling to interact with anyone that wasn't my calico cat, Prissy. Who ironically had been the least prissy out every moron I had dealt with that day.