Cursed. That’s what it amounts to — or without the awkward preposition dangling, and a different kind of awkard — Cursed is that to which it amounts.

Yeah, I fucked my own karma and M.’s too.

My thought at the eve of the new year whilst showering this morning was, “Huh, the suck part of an uneventful, rather contented life is no fucking good stories.” With the large amount of shithead guys of the past, I was guaranteed an awesomely tragic New Year’s Eve. Tears, for sure, maybe some yelling, perhaps an unanswered phone call or 386, woe, misery and the sense of shattered expectation and bad choices.

Ah, the good old days. Days of drama. Days of sturm und drag, sound and fury, rage and tears.

Good stories.

Now, I thought, what have I got. Peace with no narrative.

Until, the curse. Going out to the car and finding the glove comparment mysteriously open. Weird. Until M. looks up to the hole slashed into the convertible’s rag top, and sunlight filtering in where it ain’t meant to be. Fuck me.

The GPS device, not covered by insurance, has gone the way of the buffalo, or more apropos the way of the scumbag youth, likely. Unfortunately, not an endangered species.
The car, and it’s attached but now sliced in a few places roof, is covered by insurance. But, not until after the fucking $500 deductible.

Now, and here’s where my cursing M. comes in, we’re at the HMO HQ. Looks like he’ll be getting the last X-Ray of 2006.

Seems kicking a box in impotent rage and frustration over the aforementioned burglary was a poor decision for the big toe of M.

Results and news of anything beyond bruising to be told.

Merry fucking New Year.