HER NAME IS ALBERTA; SHE LIVES IN VANCOUVER.

AP Language, tomorrow, you will have met your match.
But for this evening, I laugh at how you dangle mercilessly just hours over my head.
At the moment, I'm on my way to the couch about six inches away from this chair, on which I will rest for a minimum of two/three hours, after which I will drag myself off of and trickle down south in the general direction of Venice, to celebrate the 70th birthday of my great-aunt, Frank.
[Editor's Note: Aunt Frank makes much more sense than Uncle Frank. Trust me.]
I'm certainly ready for "spring break" to reach the ultimate in closure. It's held very little for me, not to mention the angry extent to which I've realized that I wish desperately to strangle my ailing grandmother any chance in which I'm "blessed" with a visit...Think strangulation by spring roll.
Duck and soy sauce packets to follow, I guarantee.
MSG'd!