Egad, this task is hard and seems to be getting harder every year and day that I keep on doing it. At least it’s another sunny day, for what it’s worth. And Easter is on the way, so that means a short week, resurrection, all that jazz.
Read a F*cking Book
says the sticker on my office mirror. So when
I look into it, at my sagging old face with its
liverish spots and eye wrinkles and strange fleshy
barnacles, I'm sometimes tempted to take
its advice -- plop down on my comfy chair,
crack open a classic, and lose myself to
Pemberley or Thornfield Hall, where no one
ages, the government beyond the manor walls
is never mentioned, the moors wait with
steaming horses and rock thighed lords, and
the canny heroine (smart and sassy) always
wins in the end, despite her cheeky opinions,
dead or dissolute family, and left of center looks.
