D'Arvit.

The bathroom of my house used to have quirky, not very well done rock walls. In the shower there was a small mural made of tiles, depicting dolphins.

Now the bathroom is being remodled, and the dolphins must go.

The man who took them out, the husband of one of my mother's best friends, tried his best to preserve my beloved dolphin tiles.

Only one was saved. The three others were chipped, or, in one case, broken in half.

Why am I making such a big deal? you ask. Don't you know how soothing a nice hot shower can be? For me, it was comforting having the dolphins to stare at, to write on with a wet finger or a wet soap bar.

When the tiles, broken but for one, were presented to me, I wanted to scream and rage at the nice person who had tried so hard to save them.

But that wasn't fair; it wasn't his fault. Who's fault was it? No one's. How uncomfortable, having no one to blame.

So instead of the immediate reaction that came to mind, I mumbled, "Thanks." and ran off to take comfort in an abstraction of metal and plastic, that cannot think or hope, but is connected to the Internet.

Isn't it apropriate that it's Day of the Dead?

Gods, I hate funerals.

Maybe studying for tomorow's tests will stop me crying for not much of a reason.

I hate crying.

Darn.