The Unlikely Rise of Alex Harper

When It Rains, It Pours

Sometimes, life had a peculiar way of serving me lemons—sour, shriveled ones, with barely enough juice to sting a paper cut.

It was one of those times today. It was morning, 6 A.M. I strutted into the kitchen, wanting to make coffee as usual, only to find the coffee machine blinking angrily, demanding water. Fine, I thought. A minor inconvenience. I filled it, hit the button, and—nothing. The machine choked, wheezed, and finally spewed a tiny puff of steam as if to say, "Not today, buddy."

Still, I pressed on, settling for a cup of tea—aka hot disappointment in a mug. As I sipped, I heard the unmistakable sound of doom: a drip-drip-drip coming from the bathroom. The sink, which had been hanging by a thread for months, had finally decided to throw in the towel.

"You've gotta be kidding me," I muttered, grabbing a wrench like some DIY warrior about to conquer a dragon. Ten minutes later, I was soaked to the bone, crouched on the bathroom floor, and staring at a geyser that was once my faucet. The plumber was booked solid for two weeks. I threw a towel over the mess and decided to leave it for Future Me, who was already cursed enough.

But the pièce de résistance came later that day at work. You see, my boss, Mr. Strickland, was the kind of man who could find fault in a sunrise. He summoned me into his office, his face as sour as curdled milk.

"I've been reviewing your reports," he began, tapping his pen like a judge about to hand down a life sentence. "And I noticed a few errors."

A few? He began showing me what was practically a Picasso of mistakes—Inconsistent data, misplaced charts, and pointed at last at a rogue sentence that read, "I can't believe I'm still doing this job." (How that slipped in, I'll never know.)

I plastered on my best fake smile. "I'll fix the report right away, sir."

"Oh, don't bother. I've already reassigned the project to Harris." He smiled the way a cat does before pouncing on a mouse. Harris, my smug coworker who wore bow ties unironically, sauntered by my desk five minutes later, whistling "We Are the Champions."

By the time I got home, my nerves were shot. I collapsed onto the couch, only for it to groan ominously and sink in the middle. Fantastic. My furniture was now in on the joke.

The next morning, I woke up with a stiff neck from sleeping on the couch. The sink was still leaking, the coffee machine still broken, and the plumber still nowhere to be found. But I shuffled into the kitchen, poured myself a cup of lukewarm tea, and smiled.

Because if life was going to rain on my parade, I was determined to dance in the puddles—preferably while wearing mismatched socks.