So much for headlines and titles. I want you to know I'm thinking of mail even when I cannot write it. I have enough paper to tip the diagnosis of paper hoarding in my favor. Like I care. There's paper and there's paper. Case in point: I saved pages three through twelve from March 23 just for you.
I uncovered my working scanner and scanned half the front page of the section just for you. I read the full piece just for you. I hope you'll read it too, at the proper place, which is the OPINIONS section. The author, Maria Konnikova, also happens to be the author of a book about how to think like Sherlock Holmes. I'm not sure I want to think like Holmes. I mean, he was a coke addict once upon a time. Cocaine, not Coca-Cola! Shucks! I had to Google the correct spelling. No shame here. I haven't been a Coke fan since I was a teen. I preferred RC Cola and Pepsi, but I still carry fond memories of how the first sip from a tall, cold, water-dimpled bottle always tasted like fizz and wet cork. What I wouldn't give to have that taste shoot to my brain just one more time. Oh, yes! I should look up "When did Coke stop adding cocaine to their cola," but this little post isn't about that. It's about angry mail.
Angry mail, unlike angry birds, needs its wings clipped so that it cannot take flight. Like I said, I read it. I even nodded in the appropriate places, but I'll be hanged if I waste my time, paper and ink on an angry letter. That's what journals are for. Write it in a journal and you get to revisit as often as necessary, and you learn from it; you realize how cathartic telling someone off on paper really is. But it takes time too. It takes time but it's cheaper than a therapist, voodoo dolls, stick pins and high blood pressure. I know. I've been composing an angry letter for almost a week now. Each edited version is mined with less vinegar and vitriol than the first. Shucks, I might not need to waste a page from my journal after all.
Why not read what Konnokova has to say on the subject and decide for yourself? Then you can tell me if I'm wrong. Moving on . . .
Last night's mail. I could pinch myself for buying the circus stamps. Clowns are creepy. I never even liked them when I was a kid. They did cruel things, dressed funny, and made messes I worried about. I mean, who cleaned up behind them? Truth is, I never liked anything about the circus either. All those poor animals forced to live in cages and do stupid human tricks looked so sad to me. I never asked our parents to take me to see what went on inside those tents, so it always made me wonder where Erin picked up her circus gene. JC always took her. As much as I love her, I never crossed my no-circus line. Wait! Ever wonder why Barnum said, "There's a sucker born every minute?" Hold my horses! Turns out Barnum never said it??? What else is a lie?
I don't care for zoos either. I love animals, and yes, we have two cats, but don't think I don't ever look at them and wonder, "Would Simon eat me if he could?" I know Minuet would. No. Min might protect me from Simon, much like the cat that saved the little boy from the dog in yesterday's news. I hate putting them in their cage-like carriers for trips to the vet but they hate it even more. I have scars to prove it.
I believe caged animals are much like people in prison, except the animals didn't commit a crime. Then I try to imagine living on "The Planet of the Apes" and being in a human zoo. Bah! That's too Alfred Hitchcocksian! Hitchcockesque? But wait. If Noah went to all that work and trouble to save the animals from the flood, then why . . . Never mind.