There is nothing like a well balanced series of sentences:

Mother pours the coffee; I pour the tea. Chester pours his cat food all over the floor. Chester is put outside.

Today I found a Briard. What is significant about that? He is an amazing breed - those ears are butterfly like...and if I had been doing what I was supposed to do, I wouldn't have found the Briard!

The question of the day is what will I do when I grow up?

The second question is will I ever grow up?

The frightening question is have I grown up and not noticed it?

What is a drama queen? Or is that Drama Queen? I was talking to a friend whilst her one-year-old was moaning softly in the background. My friend is a very fine mother so when she said, "She's just being a drama queen. I wonder where she got that from," I knew all too well but I protested. My friend has been accused of being a drama queen. I have been accused in my day of being a drama queen. It is not a nice name to be called. It suggests a certain manipulative, air-headed quality.
My friend has handled a thousand very challenging situations with skill and serenity. She can feed fifty with two minutes notice without blinking. She learned to play the piano at fifteen and sat a performance degree at twenty-four. She has two children and one husband.
I cannot claim any of those qualifications, but I do know that I am Irish. I tend to shout then cope. And I shout in order to stop everyone or everything until I have time to cope. Shouting is effective if not done often. I even laugh as I shout, but inside I am not laughing. We do not know what this one-year-old is being a drama queen about. She is on the verge of telling us any day now! In the meantime, I trust my friend to read her moans and know that she is safe. Perhaps my friend and I aren't drama queens. Perhaps we suffer on occasion from terminal earnestness? That is another path to examine.

This is Ciboulette. She is a Maine Coon Cat...I doubt that she was an only child, but I was. Neither of us are good at confrontation. She has just run sideways down the hall looking over her shoulder. I am pathetic. I don't know how to stand my ground. Instead I throw insults at the back of my opponent. And my insults are pathetic. Your mother wore army boots isn't exactly insulting. So now I am trying to learn to confront...but I would prefer to run sideways down the hall...metaphorically speaking.

There once was a woman who lived in an isolated area and ordered her clothes through a store catalogue. One time she sent in an order for a hat for Henry. The person filling the order had no idea who Henry was and had nothing to go on. She decided to take a chance and sent the woman a generic man's hat.
The hat was returned with a note: You know this won't fit Henry.
I've always loved the faith of that woman. I never knew if Henry got his hat...but it is a wonderful explanation of the relationship between the writer and the reader. The writer is always looking for the the hat to fit Henry.

stripping

i dream of living

in an L shaped room

with bright partitions

Gordon