Please Stand By
The Management Wishes To apologize for the Writer’s abject failure to produce words of withering wit. The beatings will continue &c.
Category: This shit don’t write itself
The Dog Ate It
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Or perhaps this happened again.
Or maybe this happened.
Oh well. Could be worse…
The Flying Fickle Finger of Fate
The hand of Fate has bony fingers. Cold, too. When it pokes, The Flying Fickle Finger of Fate will not be ignored. Attention must be paid. Nobody puts Fate in the corner, try though we may.
Fate’s touch is a harbinger, a moment of reckoning. It could represent an awakening to an essential truth about ourselves. The presence of true love. A recognition of one’s duty and obligation to someone/thing else. A growing awareness of our minuscule place in the larger order of things. A glimpse of life’s abundant potential or a reminder of fragile mortality. Messages derived from the random associations generated by the gnarly digit’s touch drive inspiration and striving. Its touch can serve as a welcome reminder of our vitality, no matter the shiver down the spine.
It’s Always Something. Usually.
Last week left us with a thought experiment, predicated on the proposition that, given two pieces of looming news, only one can possibly turn out well.1For me, that qualified as a burst of optimism.
Well imagine my surprise. The verdict on The Cancer is negative; the verdict on Daughter’s acceptance to first-pick U is positive. We have defied the odds. I will live long enough to be bankrupted by my childrens’ higher education expenses. And my allegedly data-based pessimism has taken yet another blow, maybe even enough to convert me into one of the smiling optimists of the world.
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