One evening, when my boyfriend came home from work, he found me on his sofa, wrapped up in a fuzzy blue blanket in front of my laptop with watery eyes.
"Tell me my life will not be like Les Misérables!" I sniffled.
"No, your life will not be like Les Misérables," he said, hanging up his coat, "You need to stop watching that trailer."
"Tell me that everything will be okay!" I insisted.
"Everything will be okay. It will all work out."
"That's what Fantine thought," I pointed out, "She thought everything would be okay. But then she ended up in prison! And had to sell her hair! And became a prostitute!" I started sobbing at the thought of having my hair lopped off with a dull razor.
Perhaps I was being a tad overdramatic, but it's certainly scary to imagine that life will only continue getting worse and worse like Fantine's did.
After nearly three years since breaking off a five-and-a-half year relationship, I feel like I'm still in recovery mode--not emotionally, just in the get-my-life-back-on-track sense. But, honestly, what is there to do but to cry a little, laugh a little, and keep going?