Whenever I'm not feeling particularly overjoyed with the way things are going, there's one thing that always makes me laugh. It may not solve whatever is bugging me, but it sure doesn't hurt any.
My Dad (yeah, I capitalize it) used to tell a story, that he insisted really happened, where he witnessed a fender bender at work one night. The two guys got out of their cars, and the driver who got hit was a midg--er, a little person.
They exchanged insurance info, but the victimized party still--understandably--felt aggrieved.
"I'm not happy," the man said, shaking his head.
"No?" the taller man replied. "Which one are you?"
Whether or not there's really a guy out there who got bears the scars of being zinged that hard, every single time I think the words, "I'm not happy," a little voice comes back with, "which one are you?" I have to succumb to a chortle. My Dad was a world-class leg-puller. I guess that's kind of what being a writer is, too.