Murphy's Law vs. Mama's Law

My mother read a book once called "Write it down, Make it Happen", and soon after became convinced that nothing is coincidental. Case in point, she could not recall having ever seen a yellow suede jacket before, but the moment she started looking for one, yellow jackets were everywhere. Her theory is that the jackets were always there, just not in the realm of her consciousness because she wasn't concerned with their existance.

I call bullshit.

I will in no way accept this mantra as an explanation for why I'm getting sick 2 weeks before a trip or why my personal trainer, history's most perfect speciman of man, is a newlywed. It's pure Murphy's Law, and I think I speak for a large portion of humanity when I say it's getting old. To hell with this "luck" nonsense, we're dealing with a LAW here. But where the randomness is lost, it would stand to reason that control is gained, and so I propose this: Up the rules, a rebellion is in order in which the bus doesn't come until you've finished your cigarette, the flu never hits you over the weekend and there are always good looking singles around the day after you get dumped. Fuck the fucking facists, and stay outta Malibu, Lebowski!

Any suggestions on how to make this rebellion a reality are welcome, so long as they don't involve writing it down to make it happen. Again. How intriguing, I seem to have trapped myself into a paradox of my own making. Damn you, Murphy!!!!!

Diary of a break-up weekend

Friday

4pm: Shitty day of shit ends, BRock is homeward bound
430pm: Stop at apartment of DJ M, guy BRock is currently seeing, all is well in the world of Becca
6pm: Dash from Las Gaygas with Diva and Felony for happy hour and showtunes with the law students in Boystown
8pm: Five dirty martinis later, the crew heads for The Caf and Jasper's "Purim, Good Friday, Katie's 2-year countdown, Full Moon, The National Enquirer is going Glossy" party
~10pm-ish?: After falling off a chair, BRock decides it's time to move on and heads to Wrigleyville, and the forshadowing of a bad news night begins
~1am: Having successfully made a complete ass of herself with the aid of Jameson's and very slippery boots on a wet Chicago sidewalk, BRock then succeeds in pissing off DJ M to the point of no return, and is furthermore irritated to discover that it was totally justified
~4am: BRock concedes defeat, gives up on the night

Saturday

2pm: Rude awakening
6pm: Diva returns home, spends the remainder of the evening assuring his co-dependent roomate that all is for the best
10pm: Thoroughly disgusted with the previous 36 hours, BRock accepts the weekend as a failure and decides against leaving the apartment for any reason ever again

Sunday

130pm: After committing to a third straight day of not following her personal trainer's schedule, BRock drags herself by sheer will out of the apartment and into the car, to begin the 50 mile journey to Mokena in search of the promised land
730pm: Some several glasses of cheap wine, a dozen cigarettes and a CD's worth of wrist slitting songs in the car later, things begin to make sense again in the world of Becca
830pm: While fruitlessly searching for parking in Lincoln Park, there is a DJ M sighting and yours truly is thrown for the proverbial loop. Naught is well in the world of Becca
930pm: The resurrection of Christ was apparently not enough to brighten my mood today. Drowning the weekend's miseries in a bottle of Absolut back in Las Gaygas, perspective is finally reached: A shallow, loveless life really isn't that bad of a prospect, so long as there will be gay men, showtunes, and great bowls of vodka soup to fill the void.

Moral of today's story: Three cheers for alcohol; The cause of, and solution to, all of life's problems.

Hearty spoonfuls of fresh squeezed mediocrity

What about cruel and unusual punishment?
Yes, Mancow, what about it?
Jesus, no person should have to handle hard news before noon.

So my quintissential midwestern surfer boy turned west coast movie whore has turned me on to this blogger nonsense. Alright, I'll bite, but only because I respect his inclinations toward intelligent dry wit and theoretical politics. And I like when he doesn't wear a shirt. Excuse me, I'll be having a happy party in my head for a moment.


And......scene.
I had a shitty day last Friday and hence went shopping and spent money I don't have on a dress I don't need, a seemingly frivilous purchase, but it landed me in a maelstrom of drugs and elbow rubbing that lasted until 9am. I haven't yet decided if that's a good thing or not, but it gave me ammo for my soapbox shotgun.
Kristin and Hans took us all to Y Bar, a virtual mecca of boob jobs and coke heads in Armani suits. Basically it's L.A., but everyone smokes and the cab drivers are even bigger assholes. A friend of hers was doing the PR there and she was all aquiver to see a bunch of guys from the most recent "Bachelorette" that were supposed to be there. Personally, I thought it was a load, but sure enough there they were, behind their very own velvet ropes and being subtly molested by their very own flouncing groupies. In good conscience, I couldn't even call them minor celebrities, but they had their 15 seconds and so, despite their rejected status and total lack of social tact, the boob jobs were all over them. It never ceases to amaze me; being kicked off a reality show after one episode by a desperate 30-something who thinks you're a waste of space somehow deposits a pheremone that 85% of women can pick up from 6 bars away. Not that there were any more worthwhile specimans there that night, it just got me wondering: When did the losers get their mojo, and why didn't I get the memo?