Danger Zone
Let’s imagine I just wrote a post with so much whine in it that the international cheese market jumped in anticipation of the inevitable huge demand.
It was extravagant. The royal wedding can’t even begin to compare to the pity party thrown by my whine.
We are talking an epic that would have brought Homer to his knees in awe, if he could have seen it.
It was, in short, a whine that has reduced me to punning about Homer.
The problem is that I am so mentally and physically at the end of my rope, I can’t see how to fix it. And “it” has more facets to it than the Hope Diamond.
So I’m begging you: fix my life.
Just pick a problem—I’m probably dealing with it—and tell me how to fix it.
Because if you don’t, there are worse things in store than punning about Homer.
I’ll start translating Catullus again. The last time I did that, I ended up with a poem called “Look at Leslie’s Ruddy Rooster.” It wasn’t really about a rooster, if you know what I mean. I am nearly reduced to that again.
Help. Me.

Barbara says 9 April 2011
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