Scratchy vinyl of reality spins a warped melody. You clutch a deuce of queens, heart sinking like a stone boot in a fever swamp. Chalk it up to rotten luck, another cosmic raspberry. But hold on, insectoid tendrils of possibility start to writhe.

You think you’re beat, flatlined by misfortune. But the gremlins of fate, those bug-eyed tricksters with joy buzzer grins, they play a long game. Your latest disaster? A mere wrinkle in the cosmic gameboy, a pixelated sidestep from a worse glitch in the matrix.. That missed train? Probably derailed in a flaming psychic funnel. Lost your job? Maybe the boss was a tentacled horror from the beyond, using human resources as a grotesque recruiting agency. Open your eyes, sheeple! Your bad luck might be the rusty hacksaw that keeps the chrome nightmare at bay. So next time calamity craps on your loafers, take a deep drag from your invisible cigarette and mutter a prayer of thanks to the blind, gibbering gods of chaos. They might have just saved your sorry ass from oblivion.

Maybe that downpour that flooded your basement apartment snuffed out a flame that would have roasted you like a trussed chicken. 

Maybe missing the bus that snatched the briefcase bandit saved your organs from becoming spare parts in some back alley surgery. This world’s a jittery carousel, malfunctioning gears spewing chaos. Your misfortune could be a psychic shield, a bug zapper deflecting bolts of worse karma. So next time fate kicks you in the teeth, take a deep drag off your crumpled cigarette of despair. That misfortune you curse might be the roach motel that saved you from the goddamn tarantula.