Bring back my bonny to me

Universe, I bet you're rolling on the cosmic floor on your stellar patooty, but we need to straighten out this conspiracy thing.

First of all, you do not let it rain as if the world's going to cave in on itself any minute now, especially if I'm traipsing along Katipunan in my pink umbrella. You just don't do that, especially if it means I'll look like I underwent Japanese water torture right afterwards. The whole Plaster - Her - Jeans - To - Her - Legs look only goes for me when said jeans aren't dripping wet.

And Christ, you do not send lightning to whiz through my immediate area, sounding like it's cackling right beside me. I do not care to die by being zapped, especially alone, especially if that would mean I'll overcut all my classes because, frankly, Ateneo doesn't consider sudden death as an excused absence. I have known carcasses to yank themselves from their graves to trudge towards consultation rooms to have their oral exams.

And lastly, you do not make me go through all that hell just to let me find out eventually (dripping wet still) that classes have been cancelled -- because of the universe's glee? Armageddon? the Second Coming? -- oh no, because of a bleeping basketball game.

Get it?

And lastly, you do not send infestations of the Can't Move On, I Have Nothing, Nothing, Nothing If I Don't Have You kind when I sorely need a home.

Oh, bring back my bonny to me, you motherfucking idiot.

AHEM.

So, Universe. I'll give you a second chance. When I get home, that infestation better have cleared itself up, either by self-mutilation, auto-cannibalism, or by having to throw itself in front of my speeding trike ride home.

Butterflies better be coming out of my ass by the time this bloody miserable day is over.

That said, there's a reading of the greats at the Ateneo Art Gallery. Goodie -- I need me some Backless Beauties right away. That'll cheer me up loads.

*

Gahd, I hate your girlfriend or whatever discombobulated entity she calls herself nowadays. And you, Miss Discombobulated, I know your reading this. May the universe conspire with me to have the computer screen blow a fuse and send electromagnetic shards and SPAM right to your brain, straight through your itty-bitty eyes.