Monsoons and Shit

Monsoons are back.

So this post had to be.

That annoyed post grumbling about this sewer of a city we love to wade through every day.

And all those amazing people who find it romantic.

But whether in a good mood or bad, I do have a tendency to attract a lot of crap, like literal crap everywhere. It’s one of those things I’ve come to accept (and it doesn’t help when palmists and random numerologists look at you with almost pitying eyes when they try to predict your future).

Some people are just luckier than others. I guess that’s a fact.

And then there are people like me.

If there’s a jam, I will get stuck in it.

If there’s a cab about to break down, I will take it.

If there’s a dead stinking rat submerged in a pool of icky water, I will manage to step on it.

If there’s a shop with water collected on the roof, of the thousands of people on that road, I will singularly stand under it at the exact moment when the wind decides to blow it over and make the water dump its glorious self on my head.

Sometimes I feel like the honorary star of a Charlie Chaplin comedy film being made somewhere… just that they somehow forgot to inform me about it.

At the very least, if not the money, the paparazzi, or the knighthood, I deserve a Star in the Walk of Fame. Or maybe a statue in Tussaud’s. Something to make the next surprise shoot day a little easier to deal with.

Is that really too much to ask?