My head is in the clouds today.

I am sitting at my desk studying for a Hebrew exam. And as for the truth, I am sitting at my desk critically examining the label of my Smartwater bottle.

The information blurb begins, “Clouds get a bad rap.” I can’t help but ask myself, since when? Nor can I recall the last time I heard someone talking shit about clouds.

I suddenly feel defensive of the fluffly, majestic cotton balls that hover over us, that shower Mother Earth and let its flowers bloom, that provide a place for Tigger to rest his head at night, and that are largely responsible for the birth of the “sky porn” Instagenre.

What, we must ask ourselves, would be the purpose of looking up at the sky if not to later look down at it, double tap it or scroll past it?

But just as I begin to discount Smartwater’s assertion that clouds get a bad rap—just as I think, what are these guys talkin’ about? people love clouds!—I get up to leave for coffee and notice the torrential downpour outside my window.

A bad rap? Quite the understatement to describe the sun-blocking, flight-delaying, sky chickenpox plaguing our planet. To quote a young Channing Tatum in 21 Jump Street, “Fuck you, Science.”

If not for these bladderless blobs urinating uncontrollably, I could be outside grabbing coffee, meeting a stranger, getting married, doing all the things I always said I would but never did!

Look, I’m not saying clouds are the reason I’m single. But is it possible?

I think we both know the answer.