For months now G had wrapped herself in a life whose ultimate purpose was the fulfillment of the bare existential necessities of each moment. G had always imagined that such a bland and banal routine would have inundated her with a flood of the daily misery of regularity and the further misery of quotidian tragedies - sticky hair that a comb despairs of, tearing a button, finding always one of pair be it socks or earrings, stepping in a puddle, missing a bus - so on and so forth - things that require us to be heroes daily.
But, the Year (well, almost) of the Quotidian Tragedy, as G had christened the era of her foray into the mundane, was surprisingly, less like an annoying toothache that has you shaking fists at the universe and cussing at Creation every five seconds; and more like a warm fuzzy blanket that dulls you into slumber and slyly fools you into hitting Snooze every time your much maligned alarm clock attempts to wake you; which of course, would lead you to sticky hair, tearing a button, finding one of a pair, stepping in a puddle, missing the bus...
Oh! But that warm fuzzy blanket!
:)
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