I always think I'm in control, that I wield the power over this point, that the sun rises and sets by my command and that it's a well-run ship and I am Captain Bridget and this is my crew of tattooed pirates and we've set sail for bluer waters and smoother seas.
And then I snap out of my unintentional, pipe-dream-of-a-daydream, brutally reminded that I am a feral carnival child and that not only do I not make the rules, I can barely follow them, if at all and that if I dared to assume anyone was captaining this ship toward the horizon of my own life it certainly isn't me.
The seas? Perpetually stormy. The girl? Drowning, as always.