Today, as I challenged the not-so-merciful powers that be to "come at me, bro," I had the fleeting thought that maybe, just maybe, my life is just a big sitcom being viewed, if not written, by some higher,  omnipotent force.
Such as: I get myself--actually, just find myself, with little to no personal orchestration--in situations that are way too wacky (and let's face it: cliched, fantastical, and scripted) for the typical American 20-somehthing.

Take for example, the time I got tipsy while on a family vacation in Hawaii and told Wolfgang Puck that the fact  I could run up an $800 bar tab at his restaurant but then turn around and buy his frozen lasagna and self-heating caramel machiatos at Shop-Ko for a reasonable lump sum was amazing, and that he was the Martha Stewart of fine cuisine for the everyman (okay, maybe that one was my fault...you probably remember your first dirty martini with a twist that you downed when your mom wasn't looking).

Or the fact that I've been an extra in two, count 'em, two, television episodes in the last semester completely on accident--all because I obliviously wandered on to (ill-marked) closed sets and was mistaken for an actor: once on the Sarah Lawrence campus back in January, and once on 52nd Lexington right outside of my favorite Starbucks.

Or, a couple nights ago when I fell in a hole. Who unearths an entire fire hydrant and the water mainline running to it, and covers the colossal hole with just a flimsy sheet of plywood and no "DO NOT STEP ON THIS FLIMSY BOARD" sign? The City of Yonkers, that's who. Or some sadistic screenwriter trying to milk all the yucks he can from instances of physical comedy.