Love, Kristen: Friday the Thirteenth

Carter's Liver Pills

Copyrighted work available under Creative Commons Attribution only licence CC BY 4.0

Triskaidekaphobia—the fear of the number thirteen—has been around for eons, dating back to the dark ages.

If the number lands on a Friday, look out. It’s become a day for which to be paranoid of events that cannot be controlled.

The significance of Friday the thirteenth comes from Nordic and Christian mythology.

Similar to both cultures, a shared belief warned against thirteen people dining together, for one of them would die within a year.

The Christians maintained the Last Supper had thirteen seated for dinner.

Christ’s death resulted on the next day, a Friday, undeniably soon, making it horrifically an unlucky day for the Savior and his flock.

The Norse myth cited eleven close friends dined with the god Odin, during which a thirteenth person crashed the event: Loki, the god of evil and turmoil. No info is available, however, if the dinner party occurred on a Friday.

Not overly superstitious myself, I’m forever mindful of Friday the Thirteenth when it comes around. Every month that begins on a Sunday will have one. I try not to do anything out of the ordinary during that day, just in case; but my dear, old Aunt Millie is the queen of paranoia.

As sure as Carter has liver pills, an old saying my favorite aunt always uses, garlic cloves hang at the entrance and exit to her apartment at the assisted-living home.

A large silver crucifix dangles on a sterling chain from her neck. A wooden stake rests well within reach of her knitting table. Holy water fills clear vases left sitting about sporadically handy.

Four-leaf clovers decorate every room. I wonder where she gets them. Aunt Millie has clover in the wintertime too. There must be a dealer on Amazon. She’s always on the Web.

The poor, old gal still has her rabbit’s foot Granny gave her as a child for good luck. She’s got that out on the knitting table too for Friday the thirteen.

Mike Slickster called them “quirks” in his previous rant. I’ve got a rebuttal about his men’s dictionary for dummies forthcoming, by the way.

Aunt Millie’s obsessive behavior as previously portrayed only takes place on a Friday, the thirteenth; although throughout the remainder of the month and years, her demeanor could be considered eccentric, but not so noticeably.

Her mother was very superstitious, evidently from whom Millie got it too. Her sister, my mother, wasn’t the least bit concerned. I’ve inherited just a pinch, I suppose.

Now, Mr. Slickster, allow me to pay forward the following response to the preceding entry in your ramblings on the Inter-Webs. Even though I had used that bit before on here in retaliation to Fargo North (decoder), I’ll let it slide. You should be more careful:

    Women Are From Venus and Men Are Just Plain Ignorant: A Woman’s Guide to Men’s English

    Men aren’t hard to figure out. Like dumb dogs, they all think alike and have a one-track mind, whose vocabulary is very easy to decode. For instance, take the following male comments:

      I’m hungry = He’s hungry.
      I’m sleepy = He’s sleepy.
      I’m tired = He’s tired.
      Do you want to go to a movie? = He’d eventually like to have sex with you.
      Can I take you out to dinner? = He’d eventually like to have sex with you.
      Can I call you sometime? = He’d eventually like to have sex with you.
      May I have this dance? = He’d eventually like to have sex with you.
      Nice Dress = Nice cleavage (bet you didn’t think we knew).
      You look tense; let me give you a massage = He wants to fondle you.
      What’s wrong? = He’s wondering what psychological trauma you’re going through now. Yes, it’s that evident.
      What’s wrong (again)? = He realizes sex tonight is out of the question.
      I’m bored = He wants to have sex.
      I love you = He wants to have sex now.
      I love you too = Since he said it, he thinks you’re now obligated to have sex with him.
      Let’s talk = He’s trying to impress by impersonating a sensitive person to persuade you to have sex with him.

See how sexist all that is? Just as yours was a bit out of character, Mike Slickster.

Thanksgiving is next and just around the corner. I hope all who read this will have a pleasant, upcoming holiday season, if I don’t return before then.


About Mike Slickster

As an early retiree with an honorary doctorate degree from the proverbial "School of Hard Knocks," this upcoming author with a lot of free time on his hands utilizes his expansive repertoire for humorous yet tragic, wildly creative writing that contains years of imaginative fantasy, pure nonsense, classic slapstick, extreme happiness and searing heartbreak; gathered by a wealth of personal experiences throughout his thrilling—sometimes mundane or unusually horrid—free-spirited, rock-'n'-roller-coaster ride around our beloved Planet Earth. Mike Slickster's illustrious quest continues, living now in Act Three of his present incarnation, quite a bit on the cutting edge of profundity and philosophical merriment as seen through his colorful characters, most notably evident in the amusing Thirty Days Across the Big Pond series, all of which can be found at
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