"I think I've got it."

For 189 days straight, Francis had not wanted to get out of bed. In actuality, Francis had not really wanted to get out of bed for 12,774 days. She assumed that as a child she’d likely never wanted to get up and was repeatedly forced out of a peaceful slumber by her parents (and other powers that be) from the day she was born. Given that tomorrow was her 35^th birthday, it would bring the grand total of mornings she had miserably greeted the day to a nice round 12,775. Francis was never an optimist.

But it came in waves. The current ebb had begun 190 days ago when she’d experienced a brief brush with enthusiasm stemming from the promise of a callback for an off-Broadway revival of Our Town. She awoke that morning, on day 12,584, in her usual tired, irritated state, but pushed herself to get out of bed, certain the good news she had been pining for was on its way. As she methodically brushed her teeth, A Chorus Line’s “I Hope I Get It” played on repeat in her head. “God, I think I’ve got it. I think I’ve got it.”

Seven hours, four cups of coffee and half a pack of cigarettes later, Francis had not gotten the coveted callback. Apparently, the “our” in Our Town did not include her.

The very next morning, on day 12,585, Francis once again began the day in a bad mood. One that was certain to last at least through tomorrow.