One Hundred Ninety-Eight

Some days, I cannot stop myself. I shake and shudder, wondering what the hell I did to deserve to live in this time, to receive all the bounty that I—none of us—ever deserved. It’s stunning, really. This charmed life in which I am mostly happy, mostly content, usually able to complain about things utterly without merit, is by itself a suggestion that my devout atheism is based on improbability.  But, then, I wake up and realize it’s all circumstance. It is. But what  absolutely joyous mistakes! I love realizing I live in a bubble of astonishing improbabilities.