How do you know that the Karma Gods are having a hearty chuckle at your expense?

Follow these five simple steps:

First: Have a pee.

Second: Wash your hands. (With soap, thank you very much, Nosy Nellie.)

Third: Reach over to the paper towel dispenser and give a genteel tug on the dangling paper towel.

Fourth: Experience the solid thump of the entire paper towel dispenser ripping off the wall and landing in your hands.

Fifth: Look down and appreciate the fine mist of tile dust coating your shoes.

That distant murmur? That’s them.

Just when I had been making spectacular progress on learning to do up my fly, it seems I am being sabotaged from within.

Or — shall we say — below.

My zipper just died.

Completely.

And horribly.

And utterly unrepairably* irreparably** unrepairably.

I am now faced with a day at the office positively filled with walking along with papers held at waist height, sudden and unexpected tears, and a tiny jingly noise coming from an errant piece of metal directly in front of my nobbly bits.

That’s it. I’m just gonna start wearing sweatpants.

…

* So it’s not a word. Get off my freaking back. My zipper just died. Jerk.

** I changed the spelling to “irreparably”. Some would say I “corrected” it. But it felt wrong. Dead. Empty. Cold. Clammy. Fish-scaly. The very soul of the sentence*** was gone. So I changed the spelling back. SOMEONE’S gotta make a stand. This… this is my line in the sand.

*** OK. It’s not even really a sentence. But this is my site and I can call it a sentence if I want to. I mean — C’MON! MY ZIPPER IS BROKEN!

TODAY, I GET LEEWAY!