The Unbearable Lightness of Being Unlucky

Bartholomew "Barty" Bumble wasn't just unlucky; he was a walking, breathing magnet for cosmic disdain. His therapist, a woman who looked permanently perplexed, suggested "positive visualization." So, Barty decided to visualize the most mind-numbingly boring, utterly uneventful day possible. He'd stay inside, do nothing, tempt no fate. What could possibly go wrong from the sanctity of his own sofa?

He settled in, a triumphant smirk playing on his lips. Then, a drip. Not water, but a viscous, greenish sludge, emanating from a new, unsettling crack in the ceiling directly above his head. He lurched away, only to trip over Mittens, his notoriously grumpy cat, who, startled, retaliated with a furious spray. Slipping on the growing puddle of cosmic ooze, Barty went down hard, dislocating a shoulder with a sickening pop.

Writhing on the floor, an old news report flickered on the TV – a truly rare, "harmless" micro-meteor shower. Tiny, pea-sized space pebbles burning up miles above. "Harmless," the anchor chirped. At that exact moment, one pea-sized meteor, defying a gazillion-to-one odds, sliced through the ceiling crack (it wasn't sludge; it was a pre-perforated entry point!), ricocheted off a forgotten bouncy ball, and landed squarely in Barty's open, mid-groan mouth.

He choked. His eyes, wide with the sheer, unadulterated injustice of the universe, locked onto his coffee table. There, under the glow of the TV, lay his lottery ticket. He'd bought it as a gag, convinced that for him, winning the jackpot would be the ultimate, most ironically tragic form of bad luck. He was right.