A wise person knows what to preserve, and a wiser person knows what to throw away.

So, why should yesterday’s unpleasant experience live in my thoughts?

I mean, really.

Who decided that everything that’s ever happened to us deserves a permanent place in our heads?

Was there a meeting about this? Because I certainly wasn’t invited.

And if I had been, I probably would’ve voted against it.

Well, at least I enjoy living without all that unnecessary company.

Now, I don’t know how everyone else organizes their memories, but mine aren’t exactly arranged alphabetically.

I don’t have a filing cabinet labeled Vacations, Disappointments, and Other Unfortunate Events.

Can you imagine?

I’d probably spend half the afternoon looking for the key, only to discover I’d forgotten where I put the cabinet.

My brain has a retention policy.

I haven’t written it down anywhere, but I’m fairly certain it exists.

And I don’t remember appointing anyone to oversee it, either.

I mean, it’s just so unfair. There’s this strange expectation that we’re supposed to keep every miserable thing that’s ever happened to us perfectly preserved, just waiting for someone to ask about it.

Like my brain is supposed to be a museum of my own worst moments.

No thank you.

And even if I found that old filing cabinet, located the key, and managed to open the correct drawer, why would I want to open the folder anyway?

Which brings me to something else.

My feelings.

Has anybody considered those?

Nope.

And what exactly am I supposed to do with that question?

Sit down, cross my legs, and cheerfully revisit the worst moment?

“Oh, goodness! Where shall I begin?”

And suppose I find it?

What then?

What if it’s sitting right next to another worst moment?

Now I’ve got two of them staring back at me.

And I was only looking for one.

There’s no need to talk about the worst things of yesterday.

Especially when there’s so much of today still waiting to be lived.