I Hate Keys.

I have decided, as of 7 and a half minutes ago that I hate keys. Not metaphoric keys, such as "the key to my heart" or "the key to a locked piano" like in the Chekhovian play "The Three Sisters"...I mean the little metal things you use to open doors. Or in my case, fumble around for, while juggling a large backpack, a stack of books, a coffee mug, and something completely asinine for an acting class--like a rubber machete (I have gotten used to the strange side-glances), and then, with my two free fingers and my teeth, prying open the zipper of my purse to find this crude and primitive object (that was fashioned by a skilled worker who clearly had no consideration for my feelings) that will (finally) open the door. Of course I am chagrined by the fact that an inanimate object emotionally kicked my butt and reduced me to a mess of silent curses pricks of tears. In the 21st century, you would think all of the local landlords would install voice recognition door-openers...or retina-scanners...that would be nice. Anyway, I guess my life is kind of like a Russian, Chekhovian play in the sense that I can attain some kind of fulfillment in my life by hoping tomorrow will be better. In the mean time, I am content. I am content, I am content.