Life's a bowl of lemons

Sometimes life is like a bowl of lemons. I don't exactly know what that means, people just tend to say things like that. Is it yellow and pulpy? I've never gotten that impression at all. I don't even know what that would mean. Life can be funny sometimes. That's something else people say, usually right before they go into a monologue about an ironic thing that happened to them, or how they ended up in a cubicle at a job they expected to hate after that football injury ended their college career and they're suddenly reintroduced to the person they took for granted in high school, so that a romance can bud. I don't really have one of those stories prepared but I'll see what I can do. *ahem*

It was really funny... I didn't do a lot of planning ahead in life; maybe I was known for that. Throughout the years some things would become clear to me about what I expected out of my future. When I was a handyman we worked in lot of townhouses and I told myself I'd never live there. When I was in high school getting my last science credit I told myself I was never going to work in a science field, no matter how good I could be at it. Life has a funny way of spinning us. I ended up leaving my construction job for a job with a chiropractor, practicing anatomy and physiology ever day. I spent a year in college studying A&P and I got certified as a personal trainer. When my friend came calling with a roommate option I took it, town, house, and sinker. I stayed at that job for two years, and that house for one. Life is funny like that, huh?

I'd give that monologue a C+. It felt a little forced (maybe cause I've already seen the irony before; maybe cause I went back and edited it afterwards), and maybe a little contrived. It does mean, however, that like a man in his last words or a lawyer stalling for time I've been able to fill up the word count on this post without actually making a lot of sense; like a disgruntled high schooler on the cusp of graduation, in the grips of "senioritis" finds himself capable of speaking in strange tongues without actually saying anything. Don't read too far into that.

I used to write things like this on my Instagram with a nice photo of a landscape or a street sign, but it's time to grow up little. Instagram is fine, I'd just like to think typing it on my computer and having to meet certain standards makes me more of an adult. The side effect being that this post is a little more cynical and a little less whimsical. I don't think it's fate, or destiny, but it is alarming how easy it is to mistake maturity with cynicism. Like the fact that happy endings are childish. You know something? I don't actually know if anyone thinks that way but I still find a way to criticize them. I've set up an imaginary group of people based around a thought process I want to tear down. Blah blah blah modern political schism.

There I go talking about things of substance. This is what you get for making me ramble, trying to fill up a word count. And as always neither obeying every line of grammatical rules or maintaining a constant topic. I tend to shift between genre, wording, style, topic, and meaning just to list a few. That's the other thing: the list of things I switch between changes too. Am I informal or formal? Is this an essay or an anecdote, or just a bizarre attempt to fill a word count and make some kind of name for myself through writing because writing is hard. That is rule number one: writing is hard. Rule number two is probably something about the seventh circle of YouTube or an embarrassing Google Search history for "research." What was I doing again?

Oh! Cause life can be sour sometimes. I get it.