The Universe Is Speaking. It's Saying, "Pick Up the Poop."

First this morning, only days after complaining that my dermatologist, in an effort to stave off further deadly melanoma, has made me look temporarily less appealing, the Oregonian prints a teary story about a 24-year-old melanoma sufferer who died after a valiant and notably unwhiny struggle.

Secondly, as Scotty and I were rounding a corner of the local park trail, Scotty dropped a poop, I went fishing in my pocket for a poop bag and came up empty handed. If there had been no witnesses, I might have just kept on moving, as we were in the park and illegal poops litter the place like cylindrical mushrooms. We were not. Yet, before I could panic, I looked to my right and noticed, not two feet away, a plastic shopping bag that looked like it may have dropped out of the pocket of an earlier dog walker. I picked it up and fulfilled its destiny.

Water into wine. Narcissism-killing newspaper articles. Magic poop bags.

The Universe speaks. It says, "Ask and you shall receive. Until you die."