Hyperbole

Something happened last night. No longer can write about self in complete sentences. Must construct sentences that would sound caveman-esque if spoken aloud. This is struggle because usually so satisfying to write about self, but now that words come clunkier, such vanity increasingly awkward.

Car was stolen; satellite images say it was driven to undergrad ghetto in Ann Arbor. Hit 'panic' button on key chain all night in hopes someone would respond to car alarm, but no such luck. Maybe it's out of range.

Beginning to fear that presidency was just a sham; wish could melt into floor with embarrassment because of lack of election victory and because Ford Hall not actually named Ford Hall and just can't quite bring self to come to grips with that. Not-Betty mad about faking illness so as to get back at Senator Chuck Schumer - apparently, Schumer and Weill actually different people.

Just want youth back, no responsibilities or weight of ex-presidenthood hovering like vulture. Instead, hang around house all day, blinds drawn - only age, confusion, horrible oatmeal. No hope, no love, no nothings. (Know-Nothings?)

No Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry