When my urinal overflowed with pee-water everyone told me it was a sign of something grand.
"You're really going places," said my Great Grandma Alla,
who died the next day after sitting down on something that at first appeared to be a leather chair but later was found out to be an escaped serial killer named Jake.
My father says life is like that sometimes.
At Alla's funeral I was silent except for an occasional little hooting noise that I would make to signify the passing of time.
So much time had passed by the end of it I felt like I was an old man, which as a matter of fact is what I am.
"You'll never find love," Ringo Starr told me in the back of the seedy rural bar where I was drinking in that night. "Love isn't made for the likes of you and me.
It's made for rocket scientists, newspaper opinion editors and so on. Me and you, Tum, we've got nothing but sadness."
"I'm an artist," I told him.
His face turned yellow and his eyes bugged out and he became very silent, so I back went to my hotel room and pulled out the Gideon Bible in the desk.
It was an old, wrinkled book dedicated to some spectre of the past. Then I realized it wasn't a Bible, it was the third volume in the Artemis Fowl series and quickly put it away.
"Hello, room service," I said.
"This isn't room service. This is your father. Your mother and I are getting a divorce."
I thought back to the urinal, which seemed so long ago.
"Father?" I asked. "Why do good things happen to bad people?"
"I don't know," he said. "I'm just a rocket scientist."
I turned off my pager and went to bed.