I must send out jinx-waves whenever I am happy. Some kind of bad karma radiation must just seep from my pores, inducing fate and passersby to ruin my buzz in any way possible. An intoxicating perfume of come-and-hurt-me wafting about me in a challenging cloud would certainly explain why every good day I have had for months has been utterly ruined by the time I get to bed.

Don't think for a second that I am the sort to enjoy such martyrdom. I would be perfectly delighted to go along being quietly pleased with existence. But it is not meant to be, I think. Perhaps some celestial editor thinks my prose needs more pain, more depth of feeling, more drama. Perhaps I have displeased the gods with my constant blasphemy and appropriation of sacrificial virgins. Perhaps I just have more enemies than I am aware of.

Does anyone happen to know if there actually is a way to win this game?