Narrative Essay On The Emotional Meltdown

I think it was on the second day of the year 2009 when I entered my office in a dismal disposition, and commented to the workplace secretary, "I feel useless these days; there isn't much to life, right?"

The secretary, a lovely young lady of around 20, answered sweetly, saccharine dribbling out of her mouth, "Must be the emotional meltdown, sir."

Her answer hit me directly between the eyes. Berated, I went to my lodge with a murmured, "Figure you are correct," feeling, completely down and out. Whatever is left of the day, I spent contemplating on the lovely secretary's sharp perception.

I had caught wind of this evil presence some time recently, this devil called the 'emotional meltdown'. Indeed, I had perused an article on the subject by some master in a late issue of Men's Health magazine, however I had skimmed over it calmly, imagining that it

I don't generally concur with my secretary that I am in the throes of an emotional meltdown. In the event that each one of those WWE wrestlers like the Undertaker, 51, can in any case set the ring ablaze with their exciting trapeze artistry, raking in revolting sums at the same time, I have no motivation to trust that I, as well, am past my prime.

Yet, hello, perhaps that is it. The devil must have something to do with the greenbacks. Perhaps, if one somehow happened to bury a few millions by a specific age, one could escape emotional meltdown. Be that as it may, then, that leaves somebody like me with a compensation scarcely ready to cover the month to month bills, with almost no possibility by any means.

The evil presence must have something to do with the greenbacks. Possibly, if one somehow managed to bury a few millions by a particular age, one could escape emotional