It's nice of the universe to cut me some slack now and again. Usually, life serves up swarms of fastballs quicker than a bank of berserk robo-pitchers in a major league batting practice, making me the unwitting mole in the Whac-A-Mole game, getting bonked witless, and scared, um, excretion-less.
Whatever. Life is probably quite good at throwing racetrack walls at you, too, just as you're punching out of the turn, just in time to catch sight of the slippery, surprise pool of motor oil now under your racing slicks -- apparently and simultaneously, according to your vision, both beneath and above your cartwheeling car frame as it bash-dances on the track.
Yeah, I've hit that same wall, on fire, and at a high rate of speed, as it is said. Life has no compunctions about such things. I try to not take things personally, even when it is damn personal and completely unpersonable.
Usually, The News is the instigating propellant in this mad equation of consciousness. I have no idea what 9 out of 10 doctors may make of things, but, for me, The News makes me foamingly loco about 479 times out of 10, not to put too fine a point on it.
The plan here: Impossible math counters insane developments -- I hope -- or, at least provides some sort of interim shield, like zombies passing up unhealthy hosts. The more I stroke out at The News, the universe provides more counterbalancing fluff pieces.
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