. . . it shits.
I had a pithy little memorial day post spinning around yesterday, but was totally creamed by other signs that the universe is indeed out to get us:
Turtle and Monkey's Mom discovered that the woman her husband had an affair with? Is Pregnant.
Sue, who I personally think has found a new voice with everything thrown her way of late, suffered a seizure last Friday. Her husband C. has the story on his blog.
And finally, Chance, who has suffered more than enough loss for one lifetime, found out that her final round of Surrogate IVF did not work out. Kym's beta started lowish, and dropped. There are no embryos in the freezer, and there's no more money on the tree.
I hate singling out stories when I know there's so much more hurt out there that I'm missing and not personally noting, but these three really twisted my weekend into knots and made me flip off karma and the universe more than once. I tried so hard to strip naked and dance in traffic and divert the bad luck in my direction, but apparently that's not how it works.
Please, if you haven't already, lend some support. Toss in some swear words. Fluff up the pillows. It's the least we can do.