I'm having too many brushes lately with the Death's half-cousin thorough marriage, the Angel of Maim.
A short two days ago, I was sideswiped not only by a teen with a newly minted driver's license in his Camaro but also by the cliché of getting hit by a teen driving a Camaro.
For those of you keeping score, that means that both of the adults in my household have been in a car accident in the past three weeks.
The only modes of transportation we have left are a lawnmower and a treadmill but I am too fearful to use either.
I spent the next day looking up my available vacation time and happened upon my Accidental Death and Dismemberment insurance. This threw me into a tailspin: Is my coverage sufficient? How would I look missing a few digits or a whole arm? Would I get one of those cool robot appendages and take up competitive arm wrestling?
The cherry on this cake of mortality came today when my Best Gay left a message to say that he and his beloved are planning their wills and, "In the event we should die tomorrow in a fiery car crash, will you and [vAnnie's spouse] take care of our dog? Ugh, it's pledge week on NPR. God I hate pledge week. Call me."
In times like these all you can do is get (and by 'get' I mean 'sing') Laid. I believe that it is good for the soul to air drum until your rotator cuff smarts and your throat is parched from all the falsetto.