The weather is fucking fine and it’s Friday the 13th.
I have developed a decidedly positive outlook of this unlucky day for a number of reasons. The loudest reason being the added conversational fodder for myself and my brethren who struggle against awkward silences in line at the mini mart. Or worse, forced conversation with someone known but avoided at all costs.
These people manage to slip in an elevator or get assigned the same table at the company party, so it’s nice to have some faux topics. The weather is always there, but on Friday the 13th, everyone has a story.
We’ve all heard the stories: the 13th a coworker discovered the cheating; the lost or locked-in keys; the ticket; the string of a bad day retold with the expectation of pity and laughs.
Who doesn’t love some self deprecation?
Like most people, I have also have an affinity for black cats, split poles and stepped-on cracks. Bad luck omens of American urban legend. The answer why is clear: it’s easier to imagine that when random bad things happens, that it’s not only out of our control, but also preordained fate — the result of of mysterious and cruel forces.
Things that suck tend to suck less if they make you special. And being able to shirk some blame or even the added hue to partial, begrudging responsibility.
Or you just fall down the stairs and ponder a bit too much in bed.
But how was your day?