As my girlfriend and I walked along JFK Blvd. near Dunkin’, I felt a substance land atop my dome. It didn’t feel like water droplets from an air conditioner, and rain wasn’t falling.

I stopped, turned to Faith, and said, “Did a bird just poop on my head?” She looked in my hair and confirmed.

An old wives’ tale says that when a bird poops on someone, good luck will follow. Faith subscribes to the myth and said, “That’s good luck. Now, we’ll see the apartment of our dreams.”

We continued the walk to Race Street and toured an apartment. The pad was fine but not a dream.

Sh*t happens.