Yesterday, I went to the Motor Vehicle Administration in Glen Burnie to get my driver’s license renewed. ("Glen Burnie" is not a gay couple, as some may assume; it is a wasteland of trashy strip malls just outside the Baltimore Beltway.) The process was so quick, smooth, and pleasant that I died of shock on the spot—so I suppose it was fortunate for someone that I had just signed up for organ donation.

Really, why are hard-working people such as myself constantly fending off requests for donations of one thing or another?

“Please, sir, might I have fifty cents for some food? I haven’t eaten in seventeen days.”

“Please, sir, might I have a few dollars for my political campaign so we can get the Nazis out of the White House?”

“Please, sir, might I have your heart since mine doesn’t seem to be working anymore?”

Why am I so gullible?

OK, sure, I will give up my organs. But I hereby swear to return spectacularly from the grave and torment whoever receives them.

Or perhaps the curse of having to make due with my organs will be punishment enough.

Update: In other news, I discovered a more stylish filing cabinet at Staples than could be found at Target. I died of shock on the spot.

Update Two: For the third day this week, a black cat and a cicada crossed my path in the same instant. Is the omen mitigated by the fact that this black cat had white feet, or were the solidly black cats merely busy somewhere else?

Update Three: Come to think of it, the cicada was looking somewhat peaked itself.