Some days getting out of bed means being a biohazard. Some days it means being on top of the world. Mostly it means just being me. That’s fine. Luck? Nah, not much. Coincidence? Not that either. Fate? Don’t think so. G-d? Nope. I am with Calvin here. Rocket ship underpants. Unless of course they happen to be dirty, then it’s the dyslexic Santa.