“How pleasant it is to receive the day in this manner,” cried my father one morning, whilst he was conveying me to work, and when the threadbare van was rattling to a jerky standstill along Hillview Avenue, as I wove five fingers through my raven, lacklustre, and intricately knotted hair, to detangle without success.
To me it emerged that there was no discording upon such a meticulous observation, one which I should have otherwise sensed naught about had my interlocutor rather mentioned something else in which I see no likelihood of partaking. For when I inhaled abundantly from the open windows, so as to prompt a whiff of bougainvilleas goodness to waft through my nostrils and windpipe and into my lungs, it promised well, of many gleeful prognostics of a fruitful Wednesday.
My brain could formulate no sound opinion. To have felt all the force of indignation, and wallowed in every ounce of immense resentment and aggravation and wrath and exasperation, one must know not what to think.
“I would not have heard of that idea on the general occasion,” murmured my boisterous disposition unsolicitedly, as it often would, though the deed was not to be had. With impatient activity did I—mentally—shot it a sidelong glance before its half whisper was put aside and forgotten eventually.
“You are in possession of the service vibe,” professed she, with an air of decided credence, and my inordinately frivolous life, of everlasting Gossip Girl and How I Met Your Mother catch-ups, was henceforth halted.
The general manager’s conjectured statement addled me; had she been scarcely correct, however, I would have sobbed incessantly, for to be so readily seen through it is gravely stupefying and miserable. But her physiognomy ineptitude and erroneous study of my character furnished me with abundance of great relief.