Cosmic Spite

The universe doesn’t hate you.

It just doesn’t like you.

It’s not trying to ruin your life, it’s trying to ruin your mood. 

It’s not interested in tragedy. 

It prefers aggressive inconvenience.

You’ll never get a clear warning. 

Just a series of perfectly timed, carefully placed reminders that some force, somewhere, has its finger on your pressure points.

Like the itch on your back.

The one that materializes precisely when you’re horizontal, warm, half-asleep, and utterly unwilling to move.

It knows the geography of your reach. 

It places the sensation like a sniper.

It waits until you think you’re safe.

And then it whispers: move.

Or the app. The one you need to open fast, not even for long, just for something quick.

But the app knows.

It knows you’re rushing. It knows you’re on 3% battery.

It’s been fine all week. But now?

Now it refreshes. It syncs. It takes a deep breath and becomes useless.

This is malice disguised as coincidence.

And then there are the AirPods.

The sleek, perfect objects that only betray you in your most frantic moments.

You flip open the case and they leap out like they’ve been planning their escape for weeks.

One vanishes left, one right, each aiming for a slightly different purgatory beneath the bed, both equidistant from your reach, but close enough to mock you.

At first, you laugh.

Then you crawl looking for them

Then you begin to understand: this is not bad luck.

This is personal.

Cosmic spite.

It interrupts.

It delays.

It withholds just enough to make you question whether you’re imagining it.

And that’s the brilliance of it.

You’re not being punished.

You’re just being mildly antagonized by the architecture of existence itself.

Right now you’re just interesting enough to mess with.