Everything I have touched in the last few days seems to fall apart. I opened a drawer of my filing cabinet yesterday and the handle fell off. I pulled a garbage can to me and part of the plastic rim broke off. I've broken two nails. And my TV doesn't work right. Since I have a history of bad luck with cars, men and vacuum cleaners, I'm staying away from the latter two and saying a Hail Mary whenever I climb into the former.
Today it's Unemployment, but back in the '70's, the big craze was Biorhythms. Everyone had a physical, mental and emotional biorhythm that fluctuated every month. If you were unfortunate enough to have all three hit their monthly low at the same time, you were screwed. (and not in a good way.) There was an example in the Biorhythm Book pointing out that the day that Arlene Francis' maid knocked a flower pot off the window sill, sending said flower pot careening down 20 stories and crashing on a Poor Innocent Victim's head and killing him, Arlene's three Biorhythms were all at rock bottom. The fact that it should have been the maid's biorhythms that counted and not Arlene's probably led to the early demise of Biorhythm Theory, but I miss it.
Because the only other reason I can come up with for my inability to not break things, is that I'm just a Natural Born Fuck-Up. Much like my curly hair and ready wit, breaking things is part of my Original Package and there's a no-return-no-exchange policy. You put a to-go cup of hot coffee in my hand and some portion of that coffee will be spilled-guaranteed. You tell me to attempt an athletic endeavor and either I and/or other people will end up injured. These are Immutable Laws of the Universe, much like politicians=assholes and puppies=cute.
I have pretty much learned to roll with everything I touch turning to shit; what else am I going to do? There is no such thing as a non-klutz/ability to have a relationship/Oreck gene transplant. But I have a feeling that if there were, I'd have to fight Donald Trump to get my name at the top of the list.