The king of pop is dead at 50.
Farrah Fawcett is dead at 62.
My trip to Portland is dead, not even born. Sorry, y'all — too many indicators (car breaking down, cell phone dying, other things) that kind of told me the universe didn't want me taking a road trip at this time. Sucks, too, because I was really excited.
On the other hand, I get to mooch around and eat and read and watch TV a lot. So that's something positive.