Fate, it would seem, is not without a sense of humor. One which belongs to an asshole, that is. Earlier this day, I'd had myself a chat with a close friend regarding my tension, the escalating sense of unease that's been incubating within me for about a month now. Here follows the paraphrased transcript.

Boob: Maybe you just need to find some more leisurely leisure activities. Things to relax you. I mean, you always seem to be doing fairly stressful things, even for fun. Lying in bed and reading, for instance, might be less stressful than whatever it is you're currently doing.

Me: Mmm... not when you're reading The Republican War on Science

Boob: O-kay. Well something else then. Sharpening knives always relaxes me, in a mechanical way.

Me: Well, I have sewing but sewing isn't something I can do all the time. I mean, in order to sew, I need to have something to make, alter, or repair.

..."am I asking for fate to intervene?" - this thought always enters my mind when I make sentences which begin with "but". And I kid you not, mere *seconds* after that thought had passed, I knelt down to reach into my (lovely salvation-army-scored vintage 70s Coach shoulder-) bag and an enormous tear erupted down the ass of my pants. 'Tis a miracle indeed that one of my buttocks did not sink into the (nearest) ocean, and 'tis a miracle indeed that I had a spare sweatshirt at the office with which I could conceal meiner buttocken for the rest of my goddamn day.

Yeah, fuck you too, god of pants