I have passed a million cars going in the other direction and often wondered which one of us might be going the wrong way. I have seen an innumerable amount of bended arms slinging back shots trying to drown a sorrow. Thanked more than one lucky star and guardian angel that I got out of this or that on my way to mindfulness. I have questioned the impossible, danced with the unimaginable, tempted the fates and delivered for the demanded. At my side always have been my companions, confidants, and cajolers; should have would have and could have reminding me that this way or that in choices of even the simplest things has made all the difference in who I am and am not. And yet there always seems to be hidden in the mix a need to ask why bad things happen to good people and bad people seem to get free passes. I have owned it to higher authorities. I have owed it to a lacking of caring on the parts of all that are around who could have stepped in and made a change. I have excused it to the ineptitude of the less informed and to the advice to mind my own business. Metaphors for bad and good and who gets which run through my mind as fast as unveiled cockroaches scattering across a pale white tile floor. As if what happens to us is nothing more than drawing a card from a deck. Or pulling a number from a rolling bin of bingo numbers. And even simply being somewhere at the wrong place at the wrong time. But what seems to win despite all my considerations is the fact that if one is alive, then one has to live with the revelation; shit happens.