The Farmer's Daughter
I'm being shown up on my ignorance of classic films lately. Went off on a rant about Bacall, then dreampinups from ebay emailed me part of his collection, including Frances Farmer, "the misty one," of whom I'd never heard, then Diane mentioned the movie "Sunset Boulevard," a piece of Americana I had to also confess to never having seen.
Turns out my fostering hobby exposes me for a neophyte, and take this kind lesson, boys and girls.
If you want to delve into the byways of cellular reminiscence, realize the pool is deep and other waders have tread water before you. That metaphor sucks, because you can't wade and tread water at the same time, but I think you know what I'm trying to say and this horrible instant coffee won't allow me to reword.
Like anything else, purpose must follow inclination if one is to successfully lose one's identity.
All this is just another way of avoiding the $600 charged to Discover for a new dishwasher. Long story about a tragic Thursday, brutal failure of seldom-used appliance, complete with follow-on tale of woe, broken glass in the sink trying to hand wash, garbage disposer side no less. See Mark pick the pieces out. See Mark bleed.
But I was younger Thursday, not grown up yet, like now.