Kage Baker did not believe the Universe was friendly.

Conversely, she didn’t believe it was out to get her, either. Usually. Most of the time. But she did feel that, on the whole, the Universe balanced out as slightly more malignant than benign. That way, she pointed out, she was surprised less often, and it was more frequently a nice surprise. She did not feel that this was pessimistic, but rather that she was a rational optimist and I – who blithely expected good things to materialize – was a wide-eyed loony.

I must admit, that was probably a fair cop. However, even I notice when things go wrong, eventually. Indeed, if enough goes wrong for  long enough – I have always hoped, at least – even I might be led to the tentative conclusion that the Universe hates my guts. Thus the last year, for example, has stricken me with chronic boneless woe; Kage would have shrugged  and dived to safety deep beneath the surface of her own imagination.

Yestreday, I developed some sort of brief but exciting gastroenteritis, and spent the day asleep or vomiting. Today I feel better, but half the rest of the household has bellyaches and fevers: I am a plague carrier. No sooner have I written a few new blog posts than my SPAM folder has filled up with peculiar mail: dozens of people complaining my content needs to be more original: which is not only incorrect, but how does anyone think I am cutting and pasting this balderdash? And then the ones that are not critiquing me for the one thing I’m NOT doing wrong – are in Russian. God Herself only knows what is going on there …

I am struggling with the interesting need to balance starving to death with developing hyperglycemia. As a result, I am usually hungry AND dizzy, and am compelled to spend my few working brain cells on calculating grams of carbohydrates, sugar and protein in foods I don’t want to eat anyway. This evening, having finally decided on something I could eat, enjoy and that wasn’t bad for me, I tripped into the dish cupboard and managed to break three of my poor sister’s plate set.

At least I already have to go out tomorrow. I have to hand-deliver a letter from the Social Security Administration to the Department of Social Services – who are not, apparently, permitted to speak to one another – to prove I am still disabled. So I’ll have spare time to replace patient Kimberly’s plates.

Life at the moment is full of little teeny tiny duck bites of unspeakable pettiness, from ducks who wear acid lipstick. Ugly acid lipstick. And yet, I am doing better than most of the hapless 7 billions on this uncertain world, so I feel guilty about that, too.

Back to disasters At least these are happening to someone else. And in the meantime, Dear Readers, I’m still here.