Friday the 13th

 Friday the 13th. It’s a good thing I’m not superstitious.

Or maybe I am. I throw salt over my left shoulder when I spill it. I don’t walk under ladders — though there’s a good reason there; walking under them tends to upset them. 

I don’t open umbrellas in the house, mostly because my mother gently told me that open umbrellas in the house were bad luck. I instead go through an awkward dance of opening the umbrella while it’s sticking out the door and I’m still inside. 

I don’t break mirrors. Who does? They’re a silvery bitch of a mess to clean up. 

Black cats are welcome in my house. In fact, I have one. I sometimes consider her bad luck, especially when she accidently trips me. 

I whistle indoors, but very poorly, so I may only be summoning mediocre luck instead of bad. 

Truly, though, I don’t think any of this makes a difference on Friday the 13th. We are all victims of confirmation bias on this day, infusing the random occurrence as bad luck in solidarity with the millions of others who do the same. Strangely, I don’t hear people blaming a dire event on Friday the 13th

The superstition behind Friday the 13th, in my opinion, a mass celebration of the stupid little things that happen to us. And that, with a little superstition, I can get behind. 

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