Look. The world is a messy place.

It’s nearly meticulous in the mayhem, and it’s guaranteed that something’s going to come around to knock you soundly on your ass, snatch whatever semblance of serenity you had from your outstretched hands, and leave you sprawled out on a dirty street, staring blankly into the gutters, and truly thinking that things can’t get any worse.

(Spoiler alert: They can.)

And I’m not saying this to be a discouraging douchemuffin. Or a crap canoe. Or a twatwaffle. Quite the opposite, actually.

Because when life gives you lemons, you have two choices:

Whine like a little shit, or get your shit together.

A or B.

Black or white.

One or the other.

Because there’s no fairy godmother coming to force you into an itchy blue ballgown better suited for that TLC reality show My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding. (And don’t even get me started on how uncomfortable those damn glass slippers would be. They’re heels. MADE OF GLASS.)

No stranger at a bar who’s going to lean over, compliment your pity party, and offer you a six-figure salary because you’re feeling so certainly sorry for yourself. (“Hi! I’ve actually been thinking we need a moper on staff. Come aboard the bullshit train! We have oatmeal cookies and lukewarm milk three days past its expiration date!”)

No glittery unicorn dust to snort up your nose holes off the back of a badly-lit bathroom toilet seat in a bar somewhere in L.A. that’ll make you cry rainbows and poop Twinkies. (Note: Unicorn dust should totally be the new street name for cocaine. You heard it here, first.)

It’s not about pulling yourself up by your bootstraps, seeing some anonymous glass finally half-full or looking on the bright side of life.

Because sometimes stuff is the worst.

But just because your circumstances suck, doesn’t mean you have to.

Just because you want more doesn’t mean you have to mope.

And just because you’re beaten down doesn’t mean you have to get down on yourself. (Though you’re totally welcome to get down with your bad self. Preferably to something with an illicit bass beat.)

You’re going to fail. Crash and burn. Get heat rash on the back of your neck, pick at your cuticles until they bleed, and be able to fill plastic milk jugs with your damn tears. (Probably don’t try to sell that at yard sales.)

But failing means you’re trying, and trying means you’re tough. (Like overcooked brisket.)

Your life is not a Lifetime original movie. It’s a choose your own adventure book. And while there’s no deus ex machina to step in at the end and erase your struggles, this means you have the final say in how the future turns out.

So, you can’t control the cards you’re dealt, but you can determine how you deal with them.

Don’t stay in the deep holes of whatever the hell it is what pushed you to your knees in the first place. Get the fuck up. Revise, revisit, retry.

And become better than you ever believed possible.