Somewhere between the time you dropped your left glove on the subway platform (and it got trampled) and the time when you wore two coats just to be on the safe side (and you were still cold), you ran out of fucks. Just up and lost them. Gone. Except every morning, you somehow manage to will a single fuck into existence when you get dressed, because the alternative — wearing an outfit as bleak and sad as the dirty snow you have to trek across each day — is just too depressing.
Why I'm Done Being Mysterious On Dates