Agoraphobia Was My Quirky Armor Against A

Thank God I'm Over The Hill. The Only Heat I Have Left Comes From Hot Flashes, My Promiscuity Is Confined To The Words "one Size Fits All," And I Buy My White Cotton Unmentionables At Boadicea's Retreat, Not Victoria's Secret. None Of The Things Men Do To Women Could Possibly Happen To Me Now Unless The U.s. Is Invaded By One Of Those New Russian Republics Whose Soldiers Aren't Fussy.

Because The Theater Lost A Barrymore Every Time A Southerner Decided Not To Go On The Stage, Just About Anything That Comes Out Of A Southern Mouth Is Bound To Be A Ringing Line.

The Copyeditor I Drew Was A Brachycephalic, Web-footed Cretin Who Should Have Been In An Institution Learning How To Make Brooms.

To Me, Elitism Means A Love Of Excellence And Superiority, But America Has Declared War On Both And Developed A Sick Love Of The Lowest Common Denominator To Make Sure No-one Becomes Too Fine For Our Touted Democracy. We Are Almost At The Point Of Regarding Every Virtue As Elitist.

Southerners Are So Devoted To Genealogy That We See A Family Tree Under Every Bush.