Satan sent me an email a few hours ago. Basically it said Hey, Nance, there's a special place here reserved for you. You'll be locked in a room for eternity with people eating popcorn and nacho chips with their mouths open, and you'll have to listen to cornball country western straight outta Nashville all the while. And you know why, missie. All those poor frantic editors whose lives you made so miserable with blatant disregard for their jobs, their deadlines, their sanities, and their happinesses.
One of my boy colleagues, when he phoned tonight, said How are you, my sister which took my ears by surprise: usually the boys refer to each other as brothers while I am uncategorizable. I thought.