Call me old-fashioned, but a tweet to me will always be 140 characters.
Note, I didn't say 140 words. I said 140 characters. The original tweets would not let you post if you'd inadvertently tapped the space bar twice and rose the count to 141.
While looking over this list, I noticed some "tweets" that could pass for short stories. So as you can see, I'm nostalgic again. But I rarely post my "tweets on X/Twitter. Elon Musk ruined it for me.
So why do I keep creating and posting? I still like the discipline of coming up with a really snappy phrase. And it's a secretarial sort of duty. I frequently go back and harvest old tweets to use for my new "I Been Thinkin'!" venture. Most of them are evergreen.
In all, I probably have fingertip access to more than 3,000 I'd be proud to stand behind in any book.
Here you go ... and Happy New Year1
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• Whether it’s out of habit or genuine Biblical faith, but I think we’re making an honest mistake whenever we pray, “Lord, please give us the strength …” Is more strength really the answer? How about, “Lord, please give us the wisdom …” Or grace. Or the compassion. Me, I always pray for a little pastry.
• The sad trajectory of my civic passions can be tracked through the history of my correspondence. I used to write elected officials letters about America’s future. Last week I thought, you know, it’s about time I fired off a letter to Ben and Jerry complaining about how it takes too long to open their little tubs of ice cream.
• That anthropologists agree that there have been 117 billion humans on the planet since its creation 4.5 billion year ago and that our surface isn’t covered with cemeteries leads me to believe planet Earth is just one giant unmarked grave.
• I woke up this morning wondering what avowed nudists wear to the office on Casual Fridays and if it’s wrong to think I’ll ever get to the bottom of it. I know, I know, I’m just being cheeky.
• Now that we’ve finally settled that centuries old Gulf of America provocation, I propose it’s time we next eliminate the X from Mexico. Because our southern neighbors live in two places. One is Mexico with its migrants, drug cartels and sassy defenders. Then there is, ahh, Meico (pronounced Meh-HE-co. I’d love to vacation in Meico. I’d avoid changing planes in Mexico City. Eliminating the X from Mexico will eliminate a lot of problems because as everyone knows calling anything by a new name changes everything.
• Recuping from minor foot surgery has me wishing our daughters were little once again. Any time I was sick or hungover both would respond to one of the best human instincts and that is to help. They’d come in with a wet washcloth for my forehead or listen to my heart with toy stethoscopes — just like the real nurses! So darling. Then I imagine they’d head for a smoke break and complain that the patient told stupid jokes was a sissy about needles and smelled funky — just like the real nurses!!
• I’m always surprised when the ailing complain about how long it takes to see doc. The whole medical scheme is worded to frustrate. One sick person is one patient. A patient. Be patient. Have patience. Just wait. Keep waiting. Go to the Waiting Room. Wait. Be a patient in the Waiting Room. In the hospital. Hospital from the Latin root word hospitality; to treat guests and visitors with warmth and goodwill. It would be different if it were we called CanWeGetThisOverWiths sitting elbow-to-elbow in YouReGoingToBeStuckHereAWhiles in over-crowded WeDontGiveADamns
• For transvestites too shy to appear in public life is one long dress rehearsal.
• When Cave Women told Cave Men they were pregnant and were going to have a Cave Baby did they direct them to take a wild guess or to wait for more definitive testing before deciding to paint the cave pink or blue?
• Artificial Intelligence is said to be the sum distillation of all human knowledge. It will create cures for diseases that have long vexed the common man. It has the potential to solve our thorniest problems. If we accept its answers like how will partisans react if we ask AI how can we end senseless gun violence and it says, “You can end gun violence by setting down all the guns … DUH!”
• Studies show 72 percent of Americans don't get enough sleep. I question the study’s validity. How do they find researchers capable of staying awake long enough to secure the finding? Put me in a room and tell me to study a sleeping man and, guaranteed, I'll be sound asleep in 2 minutes. I'd like to see a sleep study about the sleeping habits of people who conduct sleep studies
•The full scope of man’s well-intentioned folly will be revealed at the posthumous release of a selfie of a wildlife preservationist wearing a “BEAR WITH ME” T-shirt taken seconds before he is mauled by a Grizzly wearing an “I’M WITH STUPID” shirt.
• Parkinson’s update: My left arm shakes to the point of uselessness whenever I’m under duress like, for instance, in the self-checkout aisle at the Giant Eagle. It’s stressful because shoppers treat it like participants in an Olympic event. So there I am struggling under the glare of hyper-efficient shoppers who appear eager to bag me. Just as I’m about to cry a woman emerges from the line and says, “You look like you can use a hand,” and begins to bag my stuff. Guess what I did…
a). I glared at her and said, “Take your stinkin’ paws off my Fruit Loops, you damned dirty ape!”
b). Jumped into her arms and said, “Mama, take me home! Me love you long time!”
c). Told her it was all part of a shoplifter sting operation and advised her it was in her best interest to consent to the pending strip search.
d). Genuinely thanked her for her gracious intervention.
Answer: “d).” The only thing she could have done to make it even better was if she’d have ponied up for the groceries and thrown in for good measure one of them Cadbury Eggs I find so irresistible.
Before I made it to the car I said a prayer that someone as good-hearted as she will be there for her to make it all better next time she struggles. In those few moments, she’d changed the world.
She took a sad song and made it better.
Lesson: If you see some one struggling with their burdens, momentarily set yours aside. Truly, you will change the world.
Or just do ahead and deport their sorry asses.
• Here’s a joke I wish I’d thought of years ago and one you’re welcome to use. I called the physical therapist as she was en route for our first in-home visit. I said, “Oh, and I hope you like dogs. Our 80-pound pit bull is loose and Goliath missed lunch. Sometimes people confuse his playfulness with rage and that only makes him more playful. So be alert.” Poor woman was literally trembling when Snickers, our shrill little yip dog, alerted us to her presence. She asked if we’d found Goliath. I told her Goliath was gone. “Gone?” she asked. I told her he’d been eaten by Snickers. We had a good laugh. Only one problem with this prank. It’s unwise to play it on a woman who moments later will have your signed permission to commit torture.
• Any plastic or otherwise artificial plant, flower or ground cover used to deceive observers to the level of any lawn’s lushness should be classified as “SHRUBSTITUTES.”
• Can’t prove it but I swear this had to happen almost just like this: an inventor stood before curious colleagues and announced he’d changed the world. He’d slightly modified a common household product that would become a disruptive staple in the fields of health care, beverage and recreation. It would, he swore, change the way the world looked at consumption. “I call it,” he said, “The Bendy Straw.”
• If there are homerooms in Heaven then mine will include Joan Rivers, Fred Rogers, Christopher Reeves and Sir Walter Raleigh. So — cross your fingers! — eventually being a part of that affable group is today’s incentive for me to do something good.
• I’ll bet somewhere in the universe there is an Earth guide book and I’ll bet that book has a chapter that tries to explain why we Earthlings give tips to the kids who deliver our pizzas but give squat to the ones that deliver our kids
• What for so long had seemed but a figment of my imagination has become a figment of my garage. I took possession of 50 copies of my new book, “How To Deal With All The Stuff That Sucks.” One of the things that sucks has been trying to get the book’s publisher to fulfill its obligation. I accept partial blame. They wanted a scholarly book with expert interviews discussing Parkinson Disease. I’ll not write a book I’d never read. So I busted out my own angle because you can’t die of Parkinson, but you can, I swear, die of boredom
• My favorite book of all-time is the one I’ve been reading for more than 50 years and have no prayer of ever finishing. It has no plot, no cliffhangers. Tom Cruise has not a chance of ever getting cast as the lead in any big screen adaptation. A sure flop. I can go weeks without ever even picking one up (I own four nearly identical copies). But when I need it I’m riveted to what is on its pages like I'm a rabbinical scholar and it is the Talmud. For like, oh, maybe 40 seconds. The seemingly innocuous book contains the substance that helps inspirational leaders mobilize the populace to win world wars while at the same time helping diplomats avoid them. In the very end, It’s no mystery — Spoiler Alert! — the butler didn’t do it.
Zyzzyva did.
• Researchers claim our brains are 0.5 percent plastic. I wonder what part of my brain the plastic has evicted. I hope it isn’t the part that allows me instant recall to the number of every Pittsburgh Steelers from ’72 through ‘79. And I hope the plastics don’t usurp my euphoric memory of that night in Morgantown when I was on fire with that bent pool cue and split with $320 from those angry,near-sighted rednecks. What if the plastic robs my brain of its ability to differentiate between a bright new FB post and instead decides touse the same old one over and over? Then I congratulate Plastic Brain for doing what we should all be doing. #ReduceReuseRecyle
• Our grad student is facing a particularly challenging week with a make-or-break essay due Thursday. She listed an escalating series of potential pitfalls. When she finished, I gave it a thoughtful moment and said, “Well, do your best.” Do your best? That’s all I could summon? Is, gee, guys, do your best, what Patton told the troops as they were about to storm Bastogne? Heck, Bluto was more inspirational in rallying Delta House — and his GPA was Zero point Zero. I heard myself say, “Well, do your best,” and thought, “Man, it’s a good thing we didn’t have a 3rd kid. My fathering tank is running on fumes.”
• What if they change the rules and people got into Heaven based purely on the number of tears they shed during their mortality? Would you make the cut? Did you suffer grievous losses? Did the bullies target you? Were you empathetic when you witnessed injustice or cruelty? Did your heart break easily? Me? It’s a cinch I’d get in. I’ve been a Pirate fan my whole life.
• Being a student of word origins, I’ve spent the past week frustrated by Easter. What’s an Easter? Today it’s accepted as referring to the risen Christ. But there was no precedent for that. I think I’ve figured it out. There was a common ingredient known for making things miraculously rise. It makes flat bread buxom. Therefore, I say we’ve fallen victim to a careless typo. It’s never really been Easter. Brother & sisters, let me be the very first to wish you a Happy … Yeaster! All rise!
• Heartbreak is a sadly common human condition. What you never hear about and what is even more widespread is a condition that can best be described as heart sucker punch.
• The obedient literalist in me goes to war with my every civil instinct to keep from flooring the accelerator whenever I’m in traffic and come up right behind a truck with a tailgate that bluntly instructs “RAM.”
• I love the Derby because it's the only sporting event where bitter white supremicists will openly root for a black participant. Ironic that no one plays the race card in the only sporting event where every patron upon entry is handed a race card
• You can tell by its nickname —Bigfoot (yawn) — that early promoters knew nothing about what drives the American public. Had I been involved this sentence would be common among enthusiasts: “Yeah, sure, we saw Bigfoot — Big whoop. But I shall not rest until I get a good, long at either BigBoobs or BigPenis!”
• Losing your parents can be one of life’s most sorrowful hardships, which is odd because the exact same thing can at times be said about knowing exactly where they are and being responsible for them..
• In what for me is a melancholy concession to either age or ailment, a double Wild Turkey on the rocks will no longer be my default order when imbibing at my home bar. I’ve been drinking those ever since it dawned on me that Wild Turkey was the bourbon that best describes me.
I’m not a Jack or a Daniel, a Jim or a Beam, a Basil nor a Hayden, I’m a turkey who sometimes gets wild.
But I’m having balance issues that inevitably are exacerbated by drink and I don’t want to embarrass myself or the bar. So I’m cutting back. I now order a single shot on the rocks with a splash of water.
I lose all my writer cred if people hear me ordering it that way. I need help in naming this lamo drink. Do you prefer:
- — Mild Turkey
or b) — Tame Turkey
• Ever watchful for sign of fatherly weakness, both daughters pounced when they heard me sneaking sniffles while we watched a timeless tale of love denied. They couldn’t believe it had me crying. I can’t help it. I have deep empathy for all struggling souls. What did it this time? It was the scene where Kermit and Miss Piggy simultaneously realize maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.
I reject every argument that Springsteen is over-rated, irrelevant or less than bright. In fact the only obvious mental shortcoming is a chronic inability to count beyond the number 4. He proves it all night. Watch him: “1! … 2! … 1! … 2! … 3! … 4!” He never gets beyond 4. I’ve noticed a pattern with E Street band reaction. Every time he gets to 4, they start playing an uptempo number that the crowd will recognize and cover up the embarrassment and it all goes as if they’d rehearsed it that way and we’re all reminded what an essential American rocker he is.
It’s a good thing, too, because the man sure, can’t count.
• Summer nights like these are when millions of teen boys regretfully learn that so-called rites of passage —urinating off a roof, mooning the cops — are, in fact, wrongs.
• We’re all guilty of our negativity toward Earth, what with our climate change, monstrous trash heaps and war-like tendencies, but just imagine Earth being described by some inter-galactic realtor. Oh, Earth has it all.Great schools, ample recreation
• Some people see Bruce Springsteen and wonder if he’s a treasonous scoundrel intent on impeding America’s will. Others see him and wonder if he’s the essential patriot America needs at what they perceive is America’s darkest hour. I see Bruce Springsteen and wonder how long it’s been since he felt compelled to set out a tip jar.
• How appalling to bitter trans-phobics must it be to live in a Wisconsin town named Sheboygan and will the final straw for them be when scorched-Earth politics cause shrill liberals to rename the scenic coastal town She(her/hers)boy(him/he)gan.
• It’s high time we re-define the meaning of the word “demean;” which now means to ridicule, mock or diminish. With the addition of the handy hyphen, it should mean the exact opposite. To de-mean should mean to strip a nasty person of their meanness. Example: “After the intervention, she agreed to let three friends demean her and they were so thorough even her husband agreed to take her back.”
• Just deduced this: Our Solar System was created 4.06 billion years ago, yet it has no proper name. To me, it’s almost as infuriating asnaming the moon “Moon.” I want this remedied before Happy Hour. Send your suggestions for names or mottos to the comments in this post.
•There are 30,000 pound bunker buster bomb, talk of bloody regime change, and angry mullahs bent on fanatical retaliation. Am I the only one who yearns nostalgically for when the talk of our planetary demise centered on a decline of our bee population? Earth to world leaders, “Oh, bee-HIVE!!
• I was raised in Sunday School that the Middle East was for spiritual reasons called the Holy Land. Maybe at one time. I still refer to it as the Holy Land but for different reasons. After centuries of unfathomable hatreds, bombs and bullets, everything there has a hole in it. Even the worshippers. May God (or Allah) save the Holey Land.
• I wonder if the adrenaline rush trailblazers from the Lewis & Clark expedition felt when crossing a raging river in hostile tribal territories the same combination of heroism and life-threatening trepidation when I boldly press “answer” on the phone that says the caller is unknown.
• I felt cruelly deceived after accepting an invitation to the local ham radio club only to learn ham radios are the most fraudulently named device/animal since the titmouse. That's right. There is no ham in ham radios. But I got even. I stormed out without inviting them to my monthly meeting of the bacon radio enthusiasts
• There right now are men and women whose backgrounds are similar to mine who will spend the next five days devoting themselves ruthless budget cuts sure to upend the lives of thousands. My goal this week is to write a story that allows me to use the word “poppycock” and have it make sense. Whose parents deserve bragging rights?
• Some see the tremors, the shakes and feel pity. They conclude Parkinson’s is winning. They are mistaken. I consider every visible symptom to be a last gasp attempt by a corrupt jailer to further the unjust mortal incarceration of my magnificant soul
• How will office grooming habits change if all our hairs for reasons no one can explain all began growing 1/4 inch every hour. Would people begin wearing big hampers to gather up all the excess? Would employers hire full time barbers to rove the offices and keep the coifs shoulder length? And would ambitious men and women seek pharmaceuticals that would render them bald so they could bosast t the boss of their priorities.
• Good news on the financial front! Today, August 10, 2025, the 221st day of 2025, is the first day I didn’t out of habit didn;t write 2024 on the olde schoothe 22l check. Hooray! Progress! Now, if I can only find a way to get them all to quit bouncing …
• It does no one any good to vaguely announce “a gunman” has killed 3, 6, 9, 12, etc.I’d like to see news organizations begin to ID people at least by thier astrological signs. Maybe that way we could detect a pattern next time we hear, “An armed Capricorn opened fire today …”
• Maybe the most misleading word of all time includes a profanity that means “to fornicate,” and is preceded by a word that means “a group of similar things or people positioned closely together.” The word is clusterf**k. How these two words that apart promise so much joyful togetherness have come together to mean a disastrously handled situation is a mystery. Like if you’re driving down the parkway and hear there’s a cluste**uck on the turnpike, the reaction should be, “Hot damn! I can be there in 20 minutes. That means I have plenty of time to stop and get condoms and a casserole. Better call the missus and tell her I’ll be late for dinner ….”
• Cher reached an artistic peak in ’89 when she sang, “Turn Back Time.” How different would her career have gone if instead of time, she vowed to turn back plastic surgeons?
• Many people of faith pray that God will straighten out the world. I pray that I hit the Powerball jackpot because I presumptuously believe everything will be fine if I have lots and lots of money. But I understand there are flaws in this logic so I find myself hoping there are trained professionals in heaven in charge of seeing that all prayers get treated fairly. They ensure prayers arrive at their proper destination in a safe and timely manner. They impose order on chaos. Air Traffic Controllers? No. I'm talking PRAYER Traffic Controllers
• It should be required by law that anytime anyone references the 1982 hit “It’s Raining Men!” the nearest bystander must describe it as a “real mansoon!”
• Calling our mortal passages the “Circle of Life” is cruelly misleading. It hints we’re entitled to smooth, seamless transitions. If only. We are all at the mercy of brutal, unpredictable stops and starts that last for durations over which we have no control. It’s the “Trapezoid of Life.”
• I’m aware that when we’re out with friends, the moment I step away from the table they begin to dissect my decline: “Did you see his thumb twitching? … He’s more pale than I remember … Is there a medical reason for his pants zipper to always be down?”
This is all done under the noble motivations of love and concern and I’m grateful. It’s perfectly natural. What I cannot abide is knowing I’m central to a discussion that becomes inevitably tedious. Who wants to hear such incremental setbacks, People want drama. They want romance.
From now on, I’ll be giving ‘em both.
Just before the check comes (yes, the timing is deliberate), I plan to rise and say, “I want to thank you for a lovely evening. I know you’re all curious about how I’m doing. I want to assure you I’ve never been better — and it’s all thanks to Inga, my invisible friend. She sees to my every need. And I do mean every.”
Wink! Wink!
Then I’ll say good night, put my arm around my invisible friend, escort her to the nearest restroom, lock the door and begin to loudly yodel till they come and bust the door down.
• Tough love is a cruel misnomer that allows impatient care givers an excuse to bully our most vulnerable even when that person spent the best years of their lives bestowing us with genuine love.
• I contend the single most promising business idea in history ended abruptly and tragically when the world’s first caveman barber could not decide who was first in line as nearby raptors began feeling their morning hunger pangs.
It’s happened throughout history. Man is hailed for a groundbreaking innovation only to have it surpassed by a refined version of the same thing The resulting bitterness is to be expected. “Oh, check out Mr. Fancy with his round wheels. Well, where were you back when I spent all those nights developing the first square wheel? Sure, there were some design flaws, but it was a real advance over the shapeless wheels. Well, the square wheels are not going anywhere. This round wheel thing is just a fad …”
• I wonder if any of the lifers in places like the Super Max prison have enough of a philosophical bent to ever challenge authorities when they order inmates to turn the clocks back an hour to conform with Daylight Saving Time standards.
• The older I get, the more miles I put on this mortal jalopy, the more convinced I become that are earth bodies are like used cars. Some of them can fake presentable, but it’s bound to take a lot of duct tape and putty. And sooner or later they all wind up in the junkyard. Fear not. I also believe our souls soar — right up until it’s time they get a newer, better used car, “All for the low, low price of ….” What can I say? I’m a believer in ReinCARnation. I guess that makes me a Hindu. Or maybe a Hyundai
• I believe there’s never been a better time for a bipartisan Congressional panel to authorize the construction of National Museum of School Shootings. It’ll be a way to honor the memory of the thousands of children who’ve been gunned down simply because it just wasn’t their day. There shall be a Hall of Thoughts & Prayers where nothing ever happens. There shall be an unsupervised gun range where anyone can use the same high powered weaponry that so many have used to kill our kindergartners. And there shall be a grand lecture hall large enough to overtime accommodate all the Americans who’ve for too long failed to make stopping this ungodly carnage a national priority.
• Ask a dozen people, hey, how you doin’? and I’ll bet 11 of them blurt, “Busy!” as if to be anything else is a crime against nature. And, c’mon, until you wake up every morning and have to spend your day dashing fron dinosaurs, you’re really not busy. Let’s say you’re occupied. So let’s give busy a break and become more colorful. Say you’re ticklish, bewildered, not guilty, impatient or or how about improving. How am I doing? I gotta admit. I’m partly cloudy with a chance of sprinkles.
• I wonder how many cruel nicknames, how much vicious taunting he suffered before the bullies realized, hey, this Pooh kid is all right. “Now, who’s going to convince Pooh to put on some pants.
• Every time I hear the TV announcer blahbidy, blahblidy, blahhing that this show or that is intended for mature audiences I feel like spitting out my Lucky Charms and flinging a booger at the screen.
• I so love the extra hour of sleep this day affords, I think we ought to turn the clocks back every Saturday. We’ll all feel refreshed Bonus: If we turn enough clocks back enough times we could in theory actually reverse aging.
• Not CEOs. Not NFL head coaches. Certainly not presidents. Nope, when it comes to true ground rules, no one tops the humble grave digger, for whom every rule is one way or another a ground rule.
• I surprised myself during a moment of introspection — I was between naps — I realized if given a choice between spending an afternoon with a Ho’ in a hotel or a Mo’ in a motel, I’d choose the Stooge. I guess that means I’m becoming more, er, sophisticated?
• Because I’m forever eager to fill the gaps in our children’s education, I piped up when they ordered a pizza topped with pepperoni. I told them about the day when vast herds of pepperoni used to rule the prairie. It was back when no one would ever dream of eating a pizza that was anything other than plain. It was plain or it wasn’t pizza. Plain. Plain. Plain. Then one day a daring Native American squaw ordered her brave to kill a choice looking pepperoni, which he did. She butchered the meat and in bold defiance of custom scattered some sliced pepperoni on the plain pizza and tossed it in the oven. It was an immediate sensation. Soon the sight of herds of pepperoni became scarce. The dwindling leftovers are today controlled by powerful pizza conglomerates. And that’s the story of how the pepperoni came to rule over The Great Plains.
• Even when he or she knows they are correct, the even-tempered proctologist knows to never confront a patient during an exam. Nothing good, they know, can ever come from a proctologist getting in a patient’s face
• A big part of what makes a Paul McCartney performance so endearing has nothing to do with indelible rock 'n' roll. No, it's just basking in the presence of such a happy and accomplished human being.
He doesn't boast. Doesn't preen. He just tells his stories from being one of pop culture's most important figures.
It's like listening to Gandhi read nap time Dr. Seuss to tired toddlers.
He's 83 and people say he's not going to live forever ...
He will, by God, if I have anything to say about it.
• Some days I wake up saddened I’ve not done more to improve race relations in America. Some days I wake up lamenting I failed to persuade more people about the urgencies of addressing climate change. Today I woke up bummin’ it was not I who coined the word “shampoo.”
• Sure, we can all agree drugs are bad and a mind is a terrible thing to waste, but what about the reverse? What about those who obsess over every single pound? It, too, is unhealthy. Afterall, a waist is a terrible thing to mind.
• Given the inevitable slowing of my reflexes coupled with my bone-deep irreverence I fully expect I’ll die dodging lightning bolts with my last words being, “Nyah, nyah … Missed again!’
• Call me old fashioned, but I don’t think you can consider yourself Big Picture guy if you get all your news from a small screen
• Today’s one of my favorite days of the year. I close the lap top, stack the wood next to the fire and get out the old address book. Yes, today’s the day I send letters to all my old friends. I’m sending Cam in Ohio a “Q,” Burt in Montana’s getting “L,” etc. On the back, I scribble, “Now, you can’t say I never sent you a letter, you miserable bastard, you!”
• She’ll be forever known as one of the greatest American aviators ever, an inspiration to boys and girls around the globe. But how differently would history treat the memory of Amelia Earhart (pronounced (AIR-HEART) if the lost pilot’s LAST name was Earhead (AIR-HEAD)
• People who live in glass houses must become de-sensitized to the smell of Windex.
• The generation that used to puff pot to feel groovy now pops pills that leave them feeling depressed, incontinent, incapable of achieving erections, suicidal, prone to hallucinations, etc. What’s groovy about that? There’s a pill for every problem! And that’s far out, man.
• I’m being totally serious when I say I’ll appreciate it if you cease reading right here. Believe me, I wish a tweet this graphicw had never come to me. It’s coarse, juvenile, insensitive, etc. But I find it impossible to self-censor so post I must. Don’t say I didn’t warn you …
• A man never forgets the woman who favors him with oral intimacy. The memory is indelible. It’s like it sticks in his head the moment she lets him stick it in hers.
• I was all set to read an article about the warning signs that one is a raging narcissist, but hit delete! Delete! Delete! the instant I realized the article was not about me
• A demonic being who seeks to deliver the souls of all humanity to Satan is the Anti-Christ. A sweet, old babe adored by children who seeks two cubes of sugar for high tea is the AUNTIE-Christ.
Happy New Year!!!
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