I have a dirty little secret. It’s so dirty I don’t even add commas between adjectives.
It starts out innocently enough. I poke around the fridge and come across a jar with a few floaty thingies and a bunch of brine. And I realize the fridge is full of jars with a few floaty thingies and a bunch of brine. And then I determine to do something about it.
“Honey, are you thirsty?”
“We have too many floaty thingies.”
Mr. Scatter gives me that look through his eyebrows. He mildly shakes his head.
“We have a problem here!” I get a little defensive. I’m a bit sensitive about My Issue and I’m looking for some sympathy. Mr. Scatter knows I have a dreadful disability. Making fun of such an acute condition is not humane.
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