Things could be worse. I could be Lloyd Christmas.

To the fates who get their jollies by conspiring against me:

Are we having fun now? Is this what you wanted?

You cracked my windshield at a cost of almost $300. Because, you know, it's glass. It's not like you can just make glass from sand. It's not like auto insurance should pay for auto damage. Er.

You apparently rotted my (and my husband's) teeth at a forthcoming cost of almost $300. Because, you know, by having perfect teeth for 28 years I was just begging for you to intervene.

You sent Fletcher to a specialty doctor – whose super helpful advice brought the red, bumpy lesions back to his skin tenfold – at a cost of almost $400. Because, you know, why would we want to continue our original method, which was working? No, let's get yet another prescription, watch Fletcher turn into a lobster boy, and then pay out the nose for it. When are doctors going to be like everyone else – NOT getting paid hundreds of dollars when their 10-minute diagnosis doesn't work? Where's the refund policy?

Plus, it's not like insurance should be covering this. I mean, it's not like it's a health problem. Fletcher's probably just messing with us.

Fates, I can see how this is hilarious from your lofty distance. I can also see how this post could be construed as a request for even more ridiculously expensive surprises. I am tempted to dare you. But I'll probably just shake my fist at the sky and walk away slump-shouldered and empty-pocketed.

Screw it. I TRIPLE DOG DARE YOU, FATES. Because, you know, eventually you're going to get bored with me. And think how exciting life will be in the meantime. Maybe tomorrow I'll be robbed by a sweet old lady on a motorized cart. I didn't even see it coming...