Well, Scarlett wasn't ready and we never made our visit to the MBS villa. On Tuesday night (on my way to gather my brood), the alternator belt snapped; after I replaced the belt on Yuesday, the fuel pump went yesterday. I must have some kind of karma because when I intended to visit MBS before, my Audi decided to start overheating and once it was in the shop, I learned the timing housing was about to go. As much as I want to (and need to) get to where MBS lives, the universe has been clear about what I needed to do to prevent being stranded on some desert stretch of road. Still, that hasn't prevented me from feeling worthless for not being able to get to MBS, and my karmic coincidence hasn't come without a psychic cost. We can equivocate about how well it worked out that my cars have taken a dump the day before I was about to hit the road (so didn't die somewhere miles from nowhere) but I nonetheless can't avoid the thought that something is holding me back.
Maybe it's just poverty; that certainly makes sense. Despite what the useful idiot David Brooks says, this isn't a smashing, rockin' economy. Those of us who are struggling to just get by (or know those who are), we're not interested in knowing that the top 1% are living fat. If everything's so fanfuckingtastic, where's ours?