I sometimes have this sinking suspicion that God hates me. You know the feeling, you’re at a party, forced to talk to that woman you don’t like and every time she says you look great in that particular shade of vermillion all you really hear is “You look like you’ve gained weight. And your husband’s a total tool.” Sometimes, I think God and this woman are best hair braiding buddies. This is the thing: I know I get negative far too often. I’m the type of person that spills the dog food and feels compelled to smack things around on the counter until my husband asks if I’m practicing for some sort of percussion recital. I make my grief known and if I could clamber up the side of my house without killing myself, I’d probably shout it from the rooftop. This is not a side of myself I particularly like. Read next feature >