I think it would be true to say I make heavy weather of life. I make heavy weather of all its constituent parts (driving, say, or travelling on trains, going up stepladders, ringing people up, you name it...) and of life as a whole - sometimes you think: what for?
Just recently the buggeration factor has staged a take-over. I'm caught, it seems anyway - maybe I'm overstating (how would I know?) - in the middle of two or three arguments that are not at all of my making; they landed slap bang on top of me like poo from a pigeon. Homed in on me, even. Now is that fair or not? Not, I'd say. And buggeration on top of heavy weather is, well, y'know, a bit depressing.
There's stuff at work, there's stuff at Buster's home, there's stuff elsewhere. What am I? - Argument Central? Am I sending some subconscious cosmic message that I love a good scrap? I don't. I really must start checking out that meditation stuff. If ever a body was in need of a good meditate, it's me, now.