The notice to move out wasn’t so bad after all. I managed to find another place in the same area for just a little bit more, and yesterday I gave the landlord most of my pitiful savings for a security deposit. *Sigh* The new computer will have to wait another year or two.

This morning, on my way to work, my car died in the middle of the street. I had to run back home and call for a tow. The car is all better now, but it cost me nearly as much as the security deposit did—only it was all out of the credit card, which adds interest. So I guess the software I wanted to get is completely out of the question this year, too.

I’m beginning to think terrorists are involved. They’re pretty smart, you know. They set up bombs in such a way that when all the rescue people come to take care of the wounded, another bomb goes off to get rid of them as well.

It would be awful if my Murphy moments were like celebrity deaths. Everyone knows celebrities die in threes, and I don’t think I can handle another hit so soon.

I should just end the misery and change my name to Murphy. With the lawman wining and dining me so much, I might as well give in, right? I can just imagine foreplay with him. He’d accidentally jab me in the boob with his elbow, and I’d clumsily knee him in the groin. The romantic scented candles would set the house on fire, and when we run out to safety we’ll have realized that we mistakenly put our underwear over our clothes, inside out—and of course Murphy’s not the type to listen to his mother about clean underwear, and awful leopard prints.

How does a Murphy become a Law anyway? Those idiots in Congress should be hanged.

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