You superior motherf*ckers.
You think you’re so much better than me, all dry-haired and dry-shouldered, strutting around the place like it’s yours. Look at you, you motivational-poster-in-the-making. For you, life is a sequence of sensical events: wake up well-rested, eat a balanced breakfast, put on your crease-free clothing, go to work and save the planet, trigger high-five montages and dancing sequences, blah blah blah. I’m certain, based on social media evidence I have been diligently collecting when I should have been doing something else, that none of you people with umbrellas have ever felt the icy sting of huge, fat, juicy raindrops running straight from the heavens down the back of your neck. I highly doubt you’ve ever darted from tree to tree as a means of shelter, only to realise the fattest drops to fall on you gather in wait on the leaves of those very trees.
I bet you’ve never thought to yourself “I could really do with some 2007-era Rihanna popping up to walk me to work right about now”. WHERE WERE YOU RI? IT IS RAINING MORE THAN EVER. MY SHOES ARE SQUELCHING.
Ella, ella, ay, ay, ay.
And just FYI: Life is not always about dancing in the rain. Sometimes it is about waiting for the storm to pass. In your car. Saying to yourself: “I will just march into the office pretending I recently had a shower fully dressed and dare anyone to question me”.