Woo-hoo! Only four more letters to go until I no longer have to talk about PublishAmerica. Unless I want to, like if there's a full moon or something.
There are so many situations about which we perceive a vast "wrongness." A thing gets said, and then resaid, and said yet again umpteen times until the substance of what was originally said is warped beyond any semblance of what was intended. And you'll still find someone who'll take it as Gospel. Wrong.
Why does there have to be a fly in every bowl of ice cream, a log across every road, a wrinkle in every fabric, a gate across every doorway, a whore at every wedding? That's just wrong.
Why must there always be someone with a wicked long nose stuck in everything? Who is it that appoints someone as the Wizard who presumes to inform us all of what we really mean? That's radically wrong.
When will the not-so-winsome wench go away mad? That whole wellspring of faux angst is SO wrong and getting SO old.
It is with a wry grin that I give the one-finger salute to Wim, warden of the wart on publishing's butt. Saaaaa-lute! Ain't nothin' wrong with that.
Miss Begotten is one of my pet names for myself, for Southern Gothic reasons best kept to myself. Miss Begotten tries to speak plainly, but sometimes she tends to babble -- parenthetically, of course. It's never my intention to offend (and usually that's true - except on those [maybe not so] rare occasions when I mean it very friggin' much) but it sometimes happens, so if you're unusually easily offended...
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