A fictional interpretation of a song by Bill Withers
A bad day is not a bad life.
I keep trying to convince myself of this, but it’s getting harder. This morning has not been going at all as planned. My alarm didn’t go off, so I woke up too late, and I had to stay up past three am trying to piece together the finishing touches of my presentation which I am now struggling to carry while walking in heels much too high for my feet and a dress much too stiff to move in.
A bad day is not a bad life.
Why oh why did I insist on doing everything myself?
***
I value my independence.
Perhaps too much. I always have. My mother worked endless shifts at the hospital to pay off the gambling debt my unemployed father never ceased to incur. I learned from an early age how to take care of myself.
I never learned how to depend on others, so I don’t.
But sometimes, I could really use someone to lean on.
***
A bad day is not a bad life.
But now I’m falling flat on my face. My dress rips and the skin on my knees is bleeding. The pieces of my presentation scatter around me, nearly becoming trampled by the hoard of fellow students who giggle as they pass by.
“Sucks to be you,” someone says.
I’m too busy trying not to cry to respond.
I slowly pick myself up, gather the pieces of my presentation, put them back in order. I can’t do anything about my dress, but I’ll manage. I wipe the blood from my knees and begin walking, slower this time, to my classroom.
When I reach the stairs, I look up and sigh. I consider briefly not going to class today. I can afford the failing grade. Or perhaps I can make it up. My professor loves me. Surely…
“Hey, I got your text. I’m here to help,” my best friend, Johanna says.
She grabs my presentation from my hands.
“My text?” I ask because I don’t remember asking her for help.
“Yeah, you woke up late, and you’ve been stressing about this presentation for weeks. I figured you could use some help.”
I smile. “Thanks.”
“No problem. What happened to your knees?”
“I fell.”
“Oh my. Okay, well, lean on me, and let’s get up these stairs.”
And together, we bear the load.
A fictional interpretation of a song by The Four Tops
Love is a drug when it comes to her.
I’m weaker than a man should be because I just want her. Only her. She’s the only one my eyes can see.
I can’t help myself.
I’m in love with her and I don’t want anyone else.
***
She has the curves and confidence of a woman who knows she can have whatever she wants.
One snap of her fingers and she knows I’ll be there, right there, to give her whatever she asks. She often takes advantage of this, but I don’t care. Why should I?
Love doesn’t need a reason for action.
“You have it bad.” She says.
“Sugar pie, yes I do.” I say.
***
She makes me happy, and that’s what counts.
I have to remind her every time we fight, and we often do honey bunch, you know that I love you. And she’ll fight so hard to keep that smile from her face, to keep her anger boiling, but she fails every time. Because she loves me too.
She drives me crazy, but if love was sane, it wouldn’t feel like love, would it?
Love is a drug when it comes to her.
And I just can’t help myself.
A fictional interpretation of a song by Emeli Sande
***
