As Jon Beardsley so aptly put it, "you have by far some of the worst luck I've ever seen."

And as I responded, whether it's luck or not (I do like to think I have a little more control over things, but I reckon sometimes I just don't), things do tend to break in my life quite a bit, without much reasoning behind it. Nada. Zip. If it is a result of Lady Luck, I'm genuninely not a fan of hers, nor do I consider her much of a friend. She won't be invited to my wedding, that's for sure.

First my car broke. A ridiculous amount of money down the drain. Then my computer broke, pretty much everything was replaced, and once again I spent far more money than I ever should have. Then it was the back window of my car. Then, the entire muffler system decided to fall off of my car fifteen miles from home, resulting in the most ridiculous amount of money spent yet. Then a tire on my truck explodes. Then today, I woke up, and my computer monitor no longer worked. At all. Broken. Sheesh.

All that would have paid for my journey to Europe this summer and then some. If I had invested all of that money, I'd probably be a rich man right now, swimming in a vault of cash like Scrooge McDuck.

Just a strange time in my life, I guess.

Ah, but I don't want pity, which reading over this, it sort of sounds like I do. Truly, I don't. Save pity for those who need it. Things will turn around soon, and before long, I'll be lounging in my summer home in the Italian countryside, writing my second Pulitzer-winning novel, before I fly to my penthouse in Paris to meet with my literary agent to discuss the potential of drafting my first novel as a Hollywood screenplay for Spielberg.

Mark my words.


-----
"Ellen, only last night, asked, 'Daddy, when will we be rich?' But I did not say to her what I know: 'We will be rich soon, and you who handle poverty badly will handle riches equally badly.' And that is true. In poverty she is envious. In riches she may be a snob. Money does not change the sickness, only the symptoms."
-The Winter of Our Discontent by John Steinbeck