“Well, what exactly is it that you want me to write about?” I enquire.
“Oh, your mother—stuff like that.”
“Um. I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
I blush for a moment. “In a fit a pique, I bookmarked my blog on her Mac.”
“Oh, yeah. Smart move.”
“You have no idea how badly it cramped my style.”
“I think I have some inkling.”
I should color-code the entries, so that my political readers can read the political posts, and rest can read my autobiographical nonsense. Meanwhile, I’ll start an alternate blog about how happy I am, and how I’ve kicked the orange juice habit for good, and wish to broadcast the anti-fruitjuice message to all who might care to read it—far and wide.
Actually, I have given up juice. For tonight, anyway. It’s Damrak martinis; shaken, not stirred.
Proud of me, Mom? I knew you would be.
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