Cosmic Raspberries

Occasionally, no matter how good I have it in with the Universe, I get handed a big steaming pile of something I didn't want.
I'm human, and when it does, I yell, I scream, I curse, and I occasionally break other people's things. (I'm not breaking my own stuff. What are you thinking!)
I cry, I stress eat, and then I lay in bed with a whopper of a migraine and tummy ache.
When that's passed, I pick up my fragrant pile and walk on.
Because it's what is expected of me.
I'm the Martha Stewart of cosmic raspberries. I am adept at turning piles of shat into bouquets of wildflowers.
I believe the Universe will provide what she knows I can handle, and I just have to live up to those expectations.
So here I am, walking uphill, both ways, carrying a bouquet of wildflowers made out of shat, heathens and The Man in tow, singing The Hills are Alive while twirling in my peasant dress.
Just don't get in my way. While I try to be philosophical about the Universe crapping on me, I wouldn't be so blase about anyone else leaving their scat in my path.