Break Stuff
There’s a Man who loves making my life a living hell — the original prankster.
I’ve never seen Him, but I know He’s there, lurking like an aching muscle just out of reach.
When my uniform vanishes, or Tuesdays hit harder than usual, when my toes are stubbed more times than I can count and chaos stops being a trend and just becomes… life, I look up at the sky and ask Him why.
Oh, right — I almost forgot.
Reader, meet God.
He messes with me daily.
Life with God as my personal prankster isn’t exactly a walk in the park.
Some days it feels like I’m trapped in a cosmic sitcom where the laugh track is just me… trying not to lose it.
I’m juggling school, work, friendships that feel like emotional minefields, and a cast of characters that could fill a weird indie movie.
There’s Jax — the space-backpack-wearing, dyed-hair disaster who looks like Kurt Cobain’s rebellious little brother but talks like he’s starring in a meme compilation.
Then there’s Rae — my unofficial emotional manager and part-time scheduler of bad news.
And don’t even get me started on Richard— the unwitting emotional saboteur who somehow derailed my entire week without meaning to.
Welcome to my life.
God’s playground.
Where every prank is personal — and no one’s safe.
Tuesdays are cursed. I don’t know why, but if something’s going to explode, vanish, or make me cry in the bathroom, it’s going to happen on a Tuesday.
I woke up like I always do — tired, a little hungry, and way too early. But hey, I didn’t sleep through my alarm. That’s a win, right?
The morning was suspiciously smooth. No yelling at my laptop. No surprise tests. For a few hours, I dared to believe that maybe, just maybe, my luck had shifted.
Spoiler: it hadn’t.
All day, I waited for God to strike — lurking like a lion in the long grass, biding His time.
I almost made it out unscathed.
And then He bit.
Right before my eyes, my drink bottle leapt from my arms like it had a death wish. It hit the cold, unforgiving concrete — and cracked clean in half. Like an egg.
It shouldn’t have been possible. Not with hard plastic. Not with water. But apparently, physics takes the day off on Tuesdays too.
As the water spilled out, so did everything I’d been bottling up.
Turns out, I was full of more than just hydration.
Stress. Frustration. Tears I didn’t even realize had RSVP’d to today’s disaster.
They all came pouring out — right there on the footpath, next to the plastic corpse of my bottle, while I stood frozen like the main character in an indie movie no one asked to be in.
A gust of wind hit me in the face like nature itself was judging me.
“Seriously?” I muttered to the sky. “You couldn’t wait five more minutes?”
A woman passed me, gave me that look — the poor dear’s unravelling before midday look — and picked up her pace. Fair. I’d probably avoid me too.
By the time I finally got to class, I was damp from rogue bottle water, my hands were shaking, and I was three emotional stimuli away from becoming a viral TikTok breakdown.
Then my Teacher handed me the pieces of my drink bottle.
"Was it...Was it a special drink bottle?" She asked, placing the wet books on my desk.
Cue: the sound of my soul deflating like a balloon caught in a ceiling fan.
"No." I admitted, and I heard a few kids snicker.
It wasn’t even the kind of laughter that’s cruel — more like the kind that says “Thank God it wasn’t me.”
Which, frankly, fair. If I’d witnessed someone walk in damp and haunted, gripping a broken bottle like it was the corpse of their last shred of hope, I’d laugh too.
I sat down in silence, trying to pretend I wasn’t leaking trauma like a slow-dripping tap.
My books were waterlogged. My pride was pruned. My hair? Probably frizzing.
And my teacher still hadn’t moved on — she was watching me with that look teachers get when they want to connect emotionally but are also on their third coffee and barely holding it together themselves.
“So... you doing okay?” she asked gently.
Ma’am, I am one cracked bottle away from a psychological spiral.
But instead, I gave her the classic 'don’t worry, I’m dead inside' smile and said,
“Yeah. Just a rough Tuesday.”
She nodded like she understood. But no one truly understands the Tuesday Curse unless they’ve lived it.
Just then, the door flung open. Loudly. Dramatically. Of course.
Cue: Steven.
Hair: Half red, half blonde, like he couldn’t commit to a personality.
Shoes: Worn leather.
Expression: proud of himself for being late.
“Sorry, Miss,” he said, walking in like he owned the place. “My dog ate my workbook, tried to salvage it. News flash: It didn't work.”
He caught sight of me, eyes flicked to the soggy desk, the sad bottle bits, and the cloud of barely contained despair hovering over my head.
“Oh no,” he said, loudly enough for everyone to hear. “What happened?”
He dropped into the seat next to mine, pulled out his laptop, and showed me the cracked screen.
“You want it?” he offered. “It works. It can't always type 'a', but its better than giving up.”
"No thanks, knowing my luck I'd get radiation poisoning and die." I muttered to him, "Keep it."
Steven chuckled under his breath and nudged me with his elbow. “You sure? It’s probably got a virus but like… in a fun way.”
I side-eyed him. “Steven, I already have emotional malware. I don’t need digital.”
He snorted. “Fair.”
Miss resumed the lesson, trying to act like the emotional train wreck in the second row wasn’t still dripping slightly, but Steven didn’t stop. He leaned in again.
“Rae told me you were cursed. Didn’t think it was literal.”
Rae.
Of course Rae told him. I decided to make a mental note reward her later.
“She tell you I also sneeze glitter when I’m mad?”
“She said you broke a table with your vibes last week.”
“That was Tuesday too,” I said, deadpan.
He whistled low. “Damn. Tuesday’s got beef with you.”
I didn’t respond. The class moved on, my books dried into weird crinkled shapes, and the cracked bottle sat on the desk like a tombstone. Somewhere in the background, Miss was talking about Aboriginal Rights or climate collapse or something else that matched the general theme of ruin.
Steven tapped his pen against the table.
“You know,” he said, “I think God’s using you to test the durability of human souls.”
I raised an eyebrow. “That’s a little dramatic.”
He nodded seriously. “Yeah. But so is losing a bottle that hard. It’s like divine sabotage.”
Honestly? I didn’t have the energy to argue. He wasn’t wrong.
I opened my own laptop.
“Did you tell Steven I was cursed?” I typed.
Her reply was instant. “You are cursed. I just told him the truth.”
“Don’t you think that makes me sound unstable?”
“No,” she said. “It makes you sound iconic.”
"Haha, funny." I shut my laptop.
