Terribly Abnormal Bad News

Bad news comes in threes and, maybe, sixes, as I understand, but I'm enduring a seventh -- which means we're getting nine.

First, my cat dies and the Weedwacker works and the air is let out of my chef's hat and Popeye's bye-bye and a turban's AWOL and the broccoli's cockamamie.

Now, paradise is being developed. There are new houses materializing next to ours in the adjacent undefiled woodlands.

Destruction and construction continue. Peace and nature's full beauty are memories of the past. The panoply of grand wildlife is uprooted.

And where does that leave me?

Trying to explain why I was caught in a virgin forest, exposed head to toe, between a mechanical CAT and a finger.
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