I used to worship on the shrine of the press. No more.
There is a publication I will take to the cleaners. If it’s the last thing I do. Not overnight. This, rather than my normal spur of moment missives, needs to be well thought through. Oh, yes. They have another thing coming.
So much for my veiled threat. Other than that I feel like a three year old whose chocolate Easter bunny has just melted in the sun. Close to crying. By the time I’ll get to 99 I’ll hope to be my age: Blind, deaf, oblivious to humans’ follies. Untouched.