I should have known that Halloween when I was 10 — the year that someone actually gave me a rock while trick or treating — that the rest of my life would be following in poor ol’ Charlie Brown’s footsteps. I should have known before then, probably.
I should have known when my first best friend suddenly moved away without saying goodbye in kindergarten; I should have known when I threw up all over the story time rug in first grade. I should have known when my first ever slumber party — which I had excitedly looked forward to all summer between second and third grades — was ruined because I got the world’s most epic migraine, and barfed Aunt Margaret’s fancy blueberry dessert (served out of fancy glass flutes!) all over Grandma’s bathroom as soon as the door closed behind me.
And I definitely should have known when I was 14 and won NSYNC concert tickets on the radio, only to find out I couldn’t go to the concert, because HAHA, YOUR LIFE SUCKS. That’s just the kind of luck I always had.
There were a lot of tell-tale signs that I should have foreseen that the rest of my life would follow in much the same fashion. But, somehow I didn’t. I had this silly notion that one day, someday, life would get better, or that at least it would stop handing me rocks.
But it didn’t. It hasn’t. It won’t.
I know that now.