Generally speaking, days, where there exists a format that I don't understand, qualify as Bad Days. Today, for example, was a Bad Day: I wasn't prepared for its timing, its schedule and its demonic servants placed on this earth to haunt me. I was eating cheese sandwiches at half past two in the afternoon. A feat not for the fainthearted.
A wise girl, a greater cynic than I, put some things into perspective for me: love isn't as important as I once thought. Not at sixteen. I criticised him for not knowing what love is, but I'm no more sure. How do I know that this is love? How much experience do I have of love? Little? None?