What is a bad hair day? I don’t think I have ever had one. They happen all the time apparently. People running into work late, blustering by you, “Sorry, bad hair day.” No, I am positive I have never had one. Oh, I have days where my hair fights me. So I fight back, and chop it off.


People complain about waking up on the wrong side of the bed. They mix up their sock color in the dark. They spill their coffee. Little things that are all the result of the wrong side of the bed. I wake up on the wrong side of the bed too, a lot. But I don’t cry over my spilled milk. No, I cry blank tears, screaming, screaming at the demons in my head. You see, on my wrong side of the bed, death calls. He beckons me to come. I have good reason to be petrified of the wrong side of the bed.

People call me broken. They steal a glance at me out of the corner of their eye out of pity, out of fear. People are afraid of Crazy Kate. There she goes again, Crazy Kate. Hacking at her hair again, Crazy Kate. Call the cops again, Crazy Kate’s back. Crazy Kate. How did this happen? When did Kate become Crazy Kate? I know, it must have been when I woke up on the wrong side of the bed.