Here is why I am real-time sitting in my apartment waiting to start shitting my brains out.

Ruby Jane and I were walking around the neighborhood after her music class, when I heard a male voice use “on fleek” seriously in a sentence.  Obviously, my head snapped up so that I could get a good look at the perpetrator, but then my gaze drifted instead to a young woman wearing an incredibly short skirt without stockings and peep-toed high-heels.  As I tried to figure out what had possessed her to wear this particular outfit to trudge through the toxic sludge that had replaced the once crap-tinged snow, I got to thinking that maybe she was doing a walk of shame and I’m all “that asshole should have called her an uber,” and I started getting mad for her.  I’ve watched enough Vanderpump Rules (#pumprules) to know that he probably didn’t call her an uber because he has a ‘crazy’ girlfriend who’s out of town and he didn’t want her to hack his email and see that he had ordered a car from HER apartment at nine in the morning.  Now I was mad for his girlfriend too, and I was so busy being angry about basically being an accessory after the fact to this sordid tale, I had failed to realize I had come across a man on a ladder fixing some scaffolding.

He told me to try to go around, but there wasn’t enough room for us to squeeze by.  So I had a choice: a) turn around and take the long way home or b) risk seven years bad luck for both me and my baby, and walk underneath the ladder.

I was hungry, so I chose “b.”

As I walked underneath the ladder two things happened:

1) I crossed myself (*spoiler alert* I’m not Catholic)
2) I told the gentleman on the ladder that if anything happened to me or my baby, I would hunt him down, which he thought was hilarious and replied “You ain’t superstitious, are ya?  Thanks for the blessing!”

Almost immediately it started to rain, and I thought, “Fuck.  God is pissed at me and he’s letting me know that crossing yourself when you aren’t religious ain’t kosher.” Then a car pulled up to ask for directions, and I thought “Redemption!” and I gave her CORRECT directions, but I was no match for the universe and turned around just in time for a car to spray shit water all over me as it splashed through a shit puddle.  To make matters even worse, I noticed that yet another one of Ruby’s pacifiers had decided to commit suicide and at some point had leapt from the stroller.

We finally made it home and I fed the baby and put her down for her nap.  For my lunch, I decided to cook myself some chicken stir-fry, but, as luck would have it, I’m pretty sure I forgot to clean the tongs I had used to put the raw chicken in the pan before using them again to take the cooked chicken out of the pan, thus creating a hot-bed of salmonella all over my lunch.  So now my stomach is feeling iffy, and I’m just sitting here hoping that if I do shit my brains out, I do it before Ruby wakes up.

All of this could have been avoided if that fucker knew that saying “on fleek” in a non-ironic way is super fucking lame.