When life deals me a trey-high hand, I often moan to the Sicilian, “I’m cursed.” This occurs whenever I receive a rejection letter from an agent or publisher. Or when once again my attempt to make soft chocolate chip cookies results in a tray of granite chips. “Cursed. I tell you I’m cursed.”
“Who cursed you?” The Sicilian asked.
“I don’t know, but if I ever find out, I’m going to, to, uh . . .” I sputtered
“Do what? ”
“Have them remove the curse?”
“How?” The Sicilian asks.
“I don’t know. I’ll call my Wiccan friend and ask her.”
And now I’m not sure who has the worst curse.
Three weeks ago the Sicilian open a letter from the Federal Court System. He threw it on the coffee table. “I’m not going. Throw it in the trash. I’m not doing it.”
The crumpled paper was a jury pool call for…
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