Acceptance I was upset with my father shortly after I moved to the city, enough that I didn't talk to him for weeks. I have a temper like this at times; I think it comes with my French blood.

After taking a year off after high school, I worked at our local newspaper and found that I was very suited to it. I enrolled in a related college course, packed my things, and ran towards the bright lights of the city. For the actual move, my father borrowed a utility trailer and threw a tarp over it. I wanted an enclosed trailer, but didn't argue. Dad usually knows what he's doing.

It rained and rained and rained as we drove, and when we got there, most of my things were damaged. Magazines, CDs, comics, movies, writing, my bed. Nearly everything I now had was damaged, and some of it ruined. And all I could do was bite my lip and throw it away.

He was right though. The trailer and a tarp would have been just fine if I had packed for it. I just put things into boxes with my most valuable possessions on the bottom. I didn't know then, and it took me time to realize it, but you have to expect the best and plan for the worst. Always. Things hardly ever work out perfectly, and the only way to eliminate error is to eliminate the possibility of error. Blaming my father was an automatic response to not wanting to accept the blame myself. I can do that now; I'm more human than ever these days.  ¶ 7:44 AM