What if anyone I know should read this blog?

It could constitute grounds for libel. I'll have to be like one of those artsy-fartsy writers from the 30's and 40's (I refer here to Henry Miller, Anais Nin, James Joyce... You can't libel the dead.) and call everyone by their first initial. Unless they're dead. The dead are fair game.

And if I'm going to be truly 'Joycean' then I can make up my own words. That may come in handy when I've got my rage on.

I haven't been enraged lately. It's because no one sends me emails anymore extolling the glory of Christ's Holy War against Muslims and Mexicans. Yesterday, I sat in my car in back of K-Mart, crying like a baby until I realized that my conservative/paranoid townspeople might think I was holding a bomb in my lap instead of a dead kitten. Supressing the urge to yell "Allah a Akbar" out the window, I drove home and made a lovely grave for my boy. I planted cosmos and corn over him, because if he had lived he would have been tall. Sweet dreams, Heinie.