Curses!

 I’ve made no mystery about my recent string of bad luck. 

My mother’s plumbing problems, my step-father’s health, their car trouble, the death of my printer, one of my dog’s tango with a tick-born blood disease, my desktop’s blue screen of death, everybody in the family getting colds, the tax return that could have saved us, the flat tire. And the Writer Waiting Room.

I began to wonder if I wasn’t cursed. 

But then it occurred to me. The world tries to balance itself on a daily basis. In order to have good luck, one must on occasion have bad luck. In order to experience the bliss of glorious good fortune and joy, one must endure the ravages of truly dismal shitty luck.

It stood to reason that if my luck was bad now, it was about to get really good. Is this line of thinking legit or am I just blowing sunshine up my own poop-shoot? 

Matter of opinion I guess. The thing is, things are starting to turn around. It remains to be seen just how much yet, whether this will be a simple side-stretch or a full-out, skirt-above-my-head, panties-showing twirl. At any rate, I’ve got my dancing shoes on and I’m wearing cute underwear. I’m expecting good things. I’m hoping Fate is a good fucking dancer. 

So that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. That’s how I’ve made sense of the world around me in recent days. Maybe you agree or maybe not, but there’s a logic to what I’m saying and I am a creature of logic. I want, no—I need things to make sense.