Bad experiences -> good material
I’ve been known to enjoy unpleasant experiences—at least in retrospect—because they can make for good stories.
For instance: the time I got food poisoning at a wedding and vomited on the subway somewhere between Long Island City and Brooklyn Heights, and did so in such a ladylike fashion (shielded by my pashmina) that none of my fellow passengers noticed.
Or the time I passed out while donating blood and was slapped awake by a briskly unsympathetic nurse and then left to lie, for the 45 minutes it took my blood pressure to rise, in a puddle of my own urine.
An appetite for anecdotal fodder is why I appreciated being the victim of a crime.
Once I walked away with my life, I was glad that I’d been mugged.
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