There are times when it seems as if the universe is organized as a sadistic conspiracy to inflict psychological punishment on me, to make my life an endless series of hassles and humiliations, to render excruciatingly difficult my attempts to earn a living as a journalist.
Life within this sadistic universe really, could so many things go so completely wrong by coincidence? might be pleasant for masochists, who enjoy suffering. But I lack that perverse appetite for punishment, and so am compelled to complain about the routine abuse that I seem unable to avoid, no matter how much I try.
At least it’s summertime, so he’s probably not going to have to deal with, say, [random female scribe] in fur.