Can my life get any worse?
Don’t ask me to come see your horrible band. Don’t ask me to book your horrible band. I do not want to have a beer with you. Whatever style of music that is, it was done much better at some point between 2 and 32 years ago, but you wouldn’t know that. Nor would you know what REAL PROBLEMS ARE. Don’t ask me to leave my tiny office (it adjoins my bedroom).
Suppose I can thank Mr. G for the estimated $800 Harp owes me in unpaid writing fees?
That post fails to mention that he’s taken it upon himself to get all Bo Gritz on my ass, camping out here. Though far removed from my neighborhood (and remember, I longer leave my office), this is still a little too close for comfort.