This joke isnt funny anymore

Dear Fate,

Yes, I see what youre doing, and its very impressive and well-planned and all that, well done.

I see that this is a tightly-orchestrated campaign youre in the process of carrying out, and I respect you for that, I was just wondering when, you know, it might end.

The shittiest week on record should, let us agree, finish on Sunday, yes?

Because Im not entirely sure what I did, although it was quite clearly very bad thing that made you very unhappy with me indeed. Have I been sleepwalking and killed someone? Again?

Have I brought down some government in the developing world with a couple of ill-judged sentences abut cheese sandwiches on this site?

Whatever it was – Im sorry.

The bad news midweek was bad enough – the sudden SAD-sad last weekend really sucked, however. The weather, the constant travel fuck-ups, delays and debacles, the things at work that fell over, the things at home that broke, the things on the internet that failed and bumbles I bumbled and errors I errorficated over and over again. That argument that took up most of Wednesday – and the other one that stuck me in a terrible mood all over Friday?

You know what? Those werent very enjoyable, but they werent the bad things.

Waking up this morning to find a lump the size of a satsuma on the top of my foot, however? Hobbling across the landing to discover the pain was, in fact, all down the bridge of my foot and couldnt take even an inch my weight because it was far too hurty.

THAT was a bad thing.

Yes, I do realise Im the one who got drunk and fell off her new heels on the way home last night – but you cant tell me you didnt have a hand in that *somewhere*, you bastard.

I wanted to show you that you could not beat me. I wanted to show you that I was big and tough and strong and could not be brought down by the hand of fate. Thats why you will have seen me trying to go to the sausage shop just round the corner. And you will have seen that it took me about half an hour and a fair amount of whining noises.

At that point, dear fate, or whoever the hell you are, you won.

I get it. I was wrong, and yeah, yeah youve made your point, and it is a very ow-ey point, well done you, and I think now we are even. Yes. We are now even.

Or if not, can you tell me what youve got planned for tomorrow? Please? Oh go on then. Do your worst.

Seriously – bring it on.
Its a piano falling on me from an eighteenth floor window, isnt it?

Ah, the classic ones are always the best, arent they. You bastard.

Also: Ow.

Love and kisses,
anna