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Just My Luck

Horrible.

Absolutely and completely senseless.

Lives, forever ruined in an instant. Endemic terror reverberates from the epicenter shattering our collective sense of normalcy.

We dupe ourselves into believing we’re immune.

The news seems so far from our insulated bubble. Nevertheless we’re intermittently confronted with the reality that we’re no more than a series of chance reactions happening on a pebble hurtling through space towards no particular destination.

Gunshots ring out. Another mugging’s gone awry in our imperfect world.

Tires and sirens screech and scream.

It’s too late. He’s already bled out.

The entire block and adjacent shopping plaza are shutdown. My two-thirty hair appointment with Leonardo now numbers among the casualties.

There is no doubt: man is the cruelest animal.

No recourse exists. I’m gripped with a sorrow that can’t be undone. My appointment, Leonardo, yet again derailed—even after I already had to reschedule twice when his dopey kids were struck with tuberculosis, or some shit, all last week.

Too late. The benefit dinner’s tonight and Leonardo of Leonardo’s Hair, Nails, and Pre-Paid Cell Phones is the only one in this city I can trust with my looks. Had I known a murder was happening I would have rescheduled yesterday’s spin class and made time.

Rude. Inconsiderate. All of the above.

I’m a magnet for tragedy. I suppose now I’m just expected to persevere through the tears, numb myself with a few solo afternoon drinky-poos, and primp as best I can.

What’d today’s assailant even gain, some petty cash?

Dear God, egoism is absolutely heartbreaking.

I desperately did need this appointment.

And, yeah, I suppose the callous snatching of human life is also never ideal.

It’s just that, everyone’ll be there tonight. I know Julie Henderson, that queen bee, will just have a field day with my, unfortunately, homespun appearance. How I despise that smug, toothy tart and her mole-faced lemming, Barbara. There’s no doubt in my mind they’ll spend the evening goading their twofaced following into persistent, behind-my-back mockery.

I see your game, Julie. I’m not dumb. I completed three semesters at Brown before parlaying an unplanned pregnancy into extortion and then later into a marriage with my contemporary culture professor and a life of stay-at-home luxury. So, yeah, Julie, I know a thing or two.

But smarts don’t matter now. No amount of intelligence or partially completed art appreciation degrees can un-cancel my lost appointment. Now I’m just a survivor, taking life as it comes, coping with forever being cemented on the new money B-list.

Jesus, tragedy can really hurt.

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