You can’t win with me

Friday evening, Friday night, and all day Saturday were peppered with thoughts of impending doom.

I couldn’t have told you what doom impended. I just knew disaster was about to strike, and I felt spooked.

Fortunately, I know myself and I was able to laugh at it: sometimes I get this way. I do it to myself. And I told myself, logically, that the times in my life when doom has suddenly impended upon me (is that even a word?) it’s been a surprise. ie, A couple walks into their ultrasound excited to find out if it’s a boy or a girl and instead finds out it’s an anencephalic. That kind of thing.

Therefore I can conclude that when tragedy hits, it’s always a surprise. So my sense of foreboding means nothing.

Of course, if I were really going to be surprised, then what better way for tragedy to surprise me than with a sense of foreboding which had lulled me into a false sense of security because foreboding means nothing other than I’m making it up?

You can’t win with me.

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About philangelus

Mom, freelance writer, novelist, angelphile, Catholic, know-it-all.
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