Don’t you hate it when you look at your horoscope in the Sunday paper (never admitting that you do this horrible thing, must keep it to yourself) and you see that you have a 2-star day coming gift-wrapped for you tomorrow. You think, ha ha, silly superstitious newspaper, my day will be higher than 2-stars, higher than your limiting 5-stars, even. It will be 27-stars, because I don’t believe in your poncy predictions, anyway.
Then Monday comes, which isn’t really good anyway, but when a load of terrible happenstances occur, you start to think maybe you should read the paper everyday and call in sick on days with less than 3-stars.
Of course, those will be the days that terrible domestic accidents would occur, like breaking a hip in the shower or accidently getting your hand caught with the garbage disposal running. At least at work, you can only get eraser crumbs in your eyes, carpal tunnel, or nasty bongwater coffee.
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