Alright, Universe. I have something to say to you. This has been a bad week. I'd let it slide if it was just a personal thing, really I would. My own bad week isn't really your fault--that sits squarely on the shoulders of two men I wish would have just married each other and left me out of it. Them and that smoke detector that started beeping at 4 this morning and wouldn't stop even after unplugging and battery removal. I won't blame you, Universe, for my failure to keep those stupid square batteries on hand. But I might blame you, just for kicks, for even allowing crap like that to happen to single mothers. I mean really. I've had a lot of bad weeks in my life; I'd imagine most of us have. But until recently, I've gone with the Simon & Garfunkel method of dealing with the bad stuff: I am a rock. I am an island. A rock feels no pain, and an island never cries. Turns out, rocks and islands are not happy people. Why, they're not even