I remember when I was probably about eleven or twelve (well, young anyways. placing age is not a strong point in my memories) and I had eaten some bad ravioli.

I had already thrown up everything inside of my stomach and was dry heaving into the toilet, my eyes burning with tears and my whole body covered with sweat and shaking with the exhaustion of its exertions.

Life, at that moment, was unbearable.

However I knew that this wasn't a death knell, just food sickness. I knew that this wasn't a permanent affliction, just something that would last for hours and be done.

I knew that by the time morning came I would be asleep, and by that afternoon I would be fine.

It is true that chemically I seem to have been built to be an optimist.

So maybe it is easier for me to believe things will work out unless proven otherwise.

But I just cannot understand why so many people seem to embrace pessimism as if it is something worth holding onto, as if predicting failure somehow protects them from it, and as if accepting agony ahead of time somehow subtracts from the agonies of the future.