On the same day I was hired out at Costco as the new spokesperson for the Tennessee Cheesecake Company, I mentioned to the girl who hired me that I had a friend of mine who constantly calls me "Pumpkin" and humiliated me in front of my then-staff while I was at the University of Memphis a few days prior to me heading to Atlanta.

"Everytime I say something bad about her, something bad happens to me," I said to her as we left the store.

'Karma can be a bitch, you know," she said, "Whatever you do, don't badmouth the girl again."

Obviously, I haven't reached the point of avoiding that.

Three days after saying there was something wrong with her in front of her mother, my precious Zune player fell  victim to my washer here at the house after I  (pause for dramatic effect) did a very horrible thing in my pants on the interstate as I headed home from work.

And then on Sunday as I cleaned everything off at my work area, the already-shattered sign that I have for my demo mentioning the price fell to the floor, breaking it.

Last night, I mentioned to my therapist about what had gone in the last few days and the belief that of all people, the city's northern version of Peppermint Patty in fact placed a curse on me.

His response?

"You like her, don't you?"

My response?

When pigs fly.