Damn it, Murphy.

I read an article one time about the connection between solar storms and societal downward spirals.  Apparently when you look back at history, 100 years back or more, and track the occurrence of storms on the surface of the sun, they correspond directly to declines in the stock market, natural disasters, and general misanthropy among men.  It’s the physical manifestation of Murphy’s law. And it kicks our ass each time. 

Which is to say, My rent has gone up.

And I haven’t checked the stocks yet (not that I own any)  but I’m pinning the blame on our tortured astral body.  'Cause this one can’t be my doing. Things had been going really well.  I got a raise. I've been saving. And yeah, it’s only another 600 bucks a year, but the symbolism is killing me.  I don’t know exactly what I’ve got to do to make this city love me back.  I walk its parks. I don’t litter.  I rarely complain about the big dig, T fare hikes, or the general lack of manners.  And yet, I spend my mornings drying off under a 2 foot hole in my bathroom ceiling and come home to a 10 word note: Notice required by law. Rent Increase. Unit Two.  XXX dollars.

Boston is turning me into Tina Turner, and my legs aren’t nearly long enough.