If your mansion house needs haunting, just call Rentaghost

(Editor’s note: I know I promised you an in-detail post about the parcels in the parcel, and I will get that to you one of these days. It’s just that I picked up a couple good books from the library recently. Plus, I really do not know how long this creative streak is going to last so I want to space out the posts (nine so far this year!). Also, my Inner Tree Hugger is mortified by how much the parcel adventure affected our carbon footprint.) 

I am going to go into detail about the main dead person mentioned in this post at another time, but because it is Halloween, Let Me Tell You About Ghosts.

The Internet assures me it is OK for an atheist to believe in ghosts, but it just doesn’t sit right with me. But I have failed to come up with logical explanations for some of these incidents. And I am sure it goes without saying that most of them occurred when there had been some imbibing of alcoholic beverages going on (no, really).

I’ve had supernatural encounters before this main one – my friend Adam said hello to me one night; my grandmother visited with one of her bingo buddies; and my cousin caused a flimsy photograph to fall, cracking a hard plastic object on its way down.

Then this latest series of hauntings occurred, and I think I might have to accept what the Internet says about atheists.

I am not sure exactly when it started, but there was a period of about two months when six wine glasses got broken in my apartment. The first two I was present at, (awake AND sober) and they met the fate – they broke in the process of being put into my kitchen sink. The next four too shared the same fate: they fell from (or were pushed from?) the side table next to my sofa (upon which I was asleep/passed out).

Anyway, although this was weird, I really did not think much of it (I have many, many wine glasses). But then, sometime in May I get a phone call from someone informing me of someone’s death. I was told that this person had died about two months previously… which was about the same time as those wine glasses started breaking. Again, I thought nothing of it until I watched the video for Taylor Swift’s Patient Zero and when she smashed the glass out of the other chick’s hand I knew: this dead person was haunting me (and, BTW, how fucking hot is Colin Farrell?). But then a few other things happened; most were minor and could be explained away, but one wasn’t: I was watching TV one night when I heard a loud bang coming from the kitchen. I went to investigate and found that a gallon bottle of water that had been on my kitchen counter, snug in the middle, not teetering on the edge, was now on the floor. And then I had to accept the fact that I was being haunted by this departed person. And they had been doing it since the time they first died but I had not put it together because I did not know of the death at that time.

So, I guess, my having accepted it, the dead person decided to up the ante. That night, I fell asleep/passed out on the sofa. I awoke with a start and looked to my side and there, on their knees, was this person. I think they were on their knees asking for forgiveness, because this person treated me very badly.

Or… knowing how cheap I am and how much I dislike most of my co-workers, maybe this person got super pissed that, when I learned of their death, I threw a pizza party for the office! 

 

The Plot Moistens…

 

 

OMG!!! OMG!!! OMG!!!

 

 

OK, so remember the Fucker Who Blocked Me?

 

So, a few weeks ago, on his official Facebook group, there was the following:

 

I don’t need to tell you what I did next, right?

 

And to my utter shock, I got a postcard!!!!

 

I was going to add “from him” to that previous sentence, but I suspect it wasn’t technically from him, I am sure one of his lackeys wrote it.

 

The postmark does not reveal from where it was sent, but the dates jibe, because, according to his schedule on his official website (he can’t block me from that!), he was indeed in San Francisco the week after this was written. And he does perform in Las Vegas. Which brings up a thought: I wonder what would have been written if he’d gotten a request from someone who lives in a city in which he doesn’t perform?

 

But here’s something else: how many lackeys does he have? Because my last name is kind of rare (even though there was one of us on the Mayflower). According to one genealogy site it is listed 19,516 times in their database, whereas his last name appears 1,691,495 times. So, I am thinking the writer of that postcard is someone different from the receiver of the “need to do a fat chick” email and/or the Instagram blocker.

 

But wouldn’t you let your entire staff know the name of a potential stalker? I sure would. They need to get their act together.

Pass The Parcel – What’s your name? Who’s your daddy? Is he rich like me?

So, the parcels have been opened. And I shall reveal all, eventually, but I want to look up some retail prices and, in some cases, do some research on what the fuck some items are – no, really, there are a few things I have absolutely no clue as to what they are (because most being in the modern electrical genre, my inner Luddite was quite fractious during the opening ceremony).

But in the meantime, both my curiosity and frugalness were piqued by some things. For example, who bought these items? It comes as no surprise that identifying info was blacked out:

But don’t most parcels contain some sort of invoice or receipt in them? There was nothing like that in any of the parcels. And it was interesting too that none of the parcels were from Amazon, considering its world dominance. Although, some were marked with this:

So those could have originally been from Amazon. But the others, well, it was quite obvious that they had not been opened beforehand. But wouldn’t they have to be, just in case it was a sex toy or a weapon? If they were opened and any identifying paperwork removed, whoever repacked did a very fine job of it.

And then, why did the people who purchased these items not make a greater effort to track them down? I once had a $5 Kohl’s order lost and I did all I could to get that sucker back. So, I would for sure make an effort to locate a missing item that cost me $50 (the most expensive item I have researched thus far, but I think it is going to be surpassed by a very fancy looking bottle of perfume). Yes, I am sure there are extenuating circumstances, like maybe you died after placing the order. But then, it hit me: the majority of these items are the kind of things that men would buy. And men, being inherently lazy, and on the good side of the pay inequality scale, probably just couldn’t be arsed to find out.

More soon!

Pass The Parcel – An Introduction

 

OK, let’s get this out of the way first: I will never dumb down this blog a la Harry Potter (philosopher/sorcerer) or King George (the third). I know it’s called Pass The Present in the States, but I grew up playing Pass The Parcel and so that is what this series of posts shall be named.

Secondly, I never realized until very recently that “parcel” is not a common word in the States.

So, before I start this new series, I should share some background:

I believe my two most prominent personality traits are my frugality and my curiosity. The latter came in handy in the late 1980s when I was a newspaper reporter for about five minutes; and, for the most part, has not caused too many problems.

My frugality, on the other hand, has always been a bit of an issue. Some of it I am sure comes from my childhood. We were not a well-off family. Now, don’t get me wrong, I always had a roof over my head and I never went to bed hungry; but the clothes on my back and the shoes on my feet were from Primark rather than Top Shop (the Brits out there will get that reference!).

I do try to not let my frugality effect my life; and several of my friends might call me generous (especially those with kids). It’s when it comes to spending money on myself that it gets tricky. I drink generic vodka; my wine comes in a box; and I cannot remember the last time I bought new underwear. European butter is my only indulgence, and if you’ve ever tasted American butter, you know why!

So, when I found something that inflamed my curiosity, but was kind of expensive, I was torn.

And in this case, the curiosity won, and I purchased, for $97.53, a box of unclaimed mail, with maybe some customer returns, and overstock items thrown in for good measure. Huh? I hear you exclaim. Well, apparently, it’s a thing: various businesses collect the above items (herein thereafter referred to as bits and bobs because that is just so effing British) and sell it. And it is all legal too.

And, well, going through other people’s stuff is my idea of paradise; and Storage Wars is my idea of porn.

Now, the Storage Wars stuff is way out of my league financially, but this bits and bobs deal is not (although it did take me a long time to cave in and buy). And I did some research, and this seemed the best deal.

The box arrived two days ago. I opened it and did some feeling of the parcels but did not open any of them yet. Because I had decided, when I first placed the order, that I would like to open them all at once, with maybe a glass or two of (boxed) wine inside me with music playing in the background (oh, eff, I need to get a life).

So that is what I plan to do in a few days’ time. I’ll take pics and do posts about each item individually, plus some other posts about the whole experience.

So excited!!!!

I Have Often Walked Down This Street Before…

 

Editor’s note: The events detailed below happened last weekend. But MF was too lazy to clean it up to get it published then. She also couldn’t be arsed to change this version to the past tense.

OMG!!! OMG!!! OMG!!! OMG!!! OMG!!! OMG!!!

So, the Fucker Who Blocked Me (TFWBM) is, as I write this, here in Las Vegas!!!! He has two events scheduled, one a performance this evening and the other a hardcore meet-and-greet tomorrow.

How do I know this? Well, he may have blocked me on Instagram, but he can’t block me from his website.

Neither event is sold out.

Oh, it is so tempting.

I know there are some friends out there who wouldn’t have an issue with me “borrowing” their credit card to book tickets (i.e., so they won’t be in the name of the would-be stalker who told him, via his bookers, that she could help him out if he needed to cross off “fat chick” from his Sexual To-Do list).

This would provide me with complete anonymity at both events.

I think I could behave at the concert, but the hands-on nature of the meet-and-greet (at some point, he stops at each table for a brief chat) would make it very hard to resist not giving him my real name.

Oh, but I would so enjoy seeing the look on his face if he recognized my name.

What a dilemma this presents me.

But if I decide to go, I have to take into account that this is the time of year in Vegas when it is too hot to go outside between noon and mid-October.

Maybe next year. I’ll try to work on myself, get the 13 chins down to about three, and the Texas-sized ass down to Rhode Island levels. Watch this space.

 

3… 2… 1… Three Men, Two Clues, One TV Show

 

In the 1980s there was a very popular game show on British television called 3-2-1. Contestants had a chance to win mystery prizes by solving outrageously cryptic clues. Now some of you unfamiliar with the show might think that "outrageously cryptic" is hyperbole on my part. But no, it really isn’t. For example…

Clue: "They brought a plate, so is it a meal? Dine rhymes with wine. You drink it with a glass, if you drop the glass it will break."

Prize: A skiing holiday in Austria (breaking glass = breaking/skiing).

Clue: "Cure the fever, stop the rot. No justice here, if this you've got."

Prize: A fridge freezer (lowering temperature cures fever and stops rot. "Justice" broken down is "just ice.")

I kid you not.

(And I know three examples are de rigueur and I could provide another but I just can’t with these clues anymore, they are, as they would say in my native England, doin’ me ‘ead in.)

So, in the spirit of what has been described as “one of the most baffling game shows ever made”, I have decided to give you some more hints to the identities of my latest crushes and, whilst they might be as abstruse as the ones in the previous posts, they are better than any 3-2-1 clue.

But I am not going to reveal their identities just yet. Rather, I am going to recap the clues for each of them and add new ones. And then (she wrote sarcastically) I shall wait for the guesses to come pouring in (I wish: the last post had three enquiries and those were all from friends. No stranger wants to know.) and then all will be revealed.

So, let’s examine the clues you’ve already received.

The post for the Fucker Who Blocked Me (formerly known as Middle Guy and now known as TFWBM) was accompanied by a photo of the label of a very famous English adult beverage with the following words on it: Harveys Bristol Dry Medium Dry Sherry. One or a combo of those words make up the title of a song made famous by the singer he played in a biopic. But the biggest clue to this man’s identity was the title of the blog about the newbie: Frankie Has Left the Building.

And the clues for the new guy were, well, rather sparse – just a mention of his abs (which I want to lick) and the pic of two penguins touching (kissing?) beaks. I think that gives it all away, especially when you know that I once lived in Pittsburgh, a city famous for its very successful sports teams, one of which, the Pittsburgh Penguins, is a five-time winner of the Stanley Cup (the Avs have won only three). Oh! Just remembered - I have seen the Stanley Cup in person. Now, at this point, any normal person would include a pic of them with the Stanley Cup to prove this, but I hate how I look in that pic (I hate how I look in every pic, actually). But I am going to break all my rules of sharing pics of me, because this was a highlight of my life, so here goes:

(Tee-hee.)

 

Oh, flip. All that research I did on 3-2-1 has gotten to me: I feel a clue coming on – a clue that would not be out of place on that show…

Those kissing Sphenisciformes would be happy drinking ginger beer served to them by Superman.

This will be broken down in the post that finally reveals the men.

So on to the new clues. And, as mentioned previously, they are not as perplexing as 3-2-1’s clues but they are, once again, abstruse. And to make it harder (that’s what she said) I am not going to tell you which refers to what guy and one set in fact refers to neither of them, just a random guy whom I have actually met and have been crushing on for yonks.

Alrighty peeps, let’s see if you can figure out our mystery guests:

One’s mother died when he was two years old, and one of them has a Chinese father and the other has a Korean mother, and two of them have British blood.

One was a presenter on the recent Golden Globes (how I discovered him, in fact).

One graduated from Creighton University and one has won a Tony and a Grammy, and one recently made his runway debut at Milan Fashion Week.

One’s astrological sign is Aquarius and another’s is Cancer (I don’t know the third one because I do not know his birthdate, but he strikes me as a Gemini).

And they all have black hair (which comes as no surprise to those who know me).

Over to you, armchair detectives...

Let Me Tell You About Tattoos*

                                                                

 

*I re-watched The English Patient recently and this is a paraphrased quote from it. DM if you want more deets.
 
I was watching the Winter Olympics opening ceremony last week and of course I was thinking of Kim and how much fun we would have had making our mildly snide comments. And I know we’d have saved our best ribbing for Snoop Dogg, JD Vance, Mariah Carey, Shaun White and his inability to stop talking about himself; and, most of all, Charlize Theron - WTF was a white South African doing at an event whose theme is harmony?

Anyway, I re-read the Kim post because I was missing her and I realized that I forgot to include details about us getting our tattoos, a day I can unequivocally say was one of the best of my life.

Despite my very low pain threshold, I’d always wanted to get a tattoo, and I always knew where I wanted it (inner right ankle). At first, I did not know what I wanted it to be of, but I eventually decided on the Greek symbol for my astrological sign. (When I was checking those signs out, I really liked the one for Scorpio because it is basically my first initial and the southern chick in me loves monograms. And Scorpio falls between October 23 to November 21, so people would still be up for celebrating, which they are not on my birthday because they are all partied out by then.)

I never got around to getting it (cheapness and laziness amongst the two (only?) reasons).
 
But then, one night, during one of our many phone calls, Kim was discussing her upcoming 30^th birthday and said she wanted to get a second tattoo (her first is one of the Grateful Dead teddy bears) to celebrate. I then told her I’d always wanted to get one. Now, for the life of me I cannot remember who said it first, but a lot of squealing in delight followed when we both found out we wanted the Greek symbol for our respective astrological signs. What are the odds? That made it inevitable then – off we’d go and get tats together!

We chose a Saturday, in Boulder, at an underground tattoo shop on the Pearl Street mall. E. joined us, and D. was invited but for some reason could not make it. A co-worker of mine was having a party that afternoon, so we decided to head there after the tats (spoiler alert: we didn’t).

It was quite an ordeal for both of us. For me, because of my low pain threshold, and her because it was a pretty large tat on a very sensitive body part (yep, it was a tramp stamp). But despite Kim’s being about four times the size of mine, hers took about 30 minutes less than mine because I was making the tattoo artist laugh so much, she had to stop to compose herself on multiple occasions. I was doing what I call Negative Zen: I was pretending the pain was happening to someone else. Usually, it is people I know and dislike, but this time it was just people I dislike, because the night before, we'd gone to our usual bar on the mall and ran into J. and his new girlfriend. At that time, I wanted to be his girlfriend (but not anymore; nope, he is one of my closest friends and we are family now). That being said, he once told me his dad looked like Lee Majors and well, Lee Majors was my first crush. We were going to get married and follow the Harlem Globetrotters around America. I didn’t take into account the fact that I was about 10 years old at the time. I have told J. that he should probably never introduce me to his dad unless he wants me to be his stepmother!

So, there I was, getting my tattoo and I would take a deep breath and say, “It’s happening to…” and just insert the name of one of J.’s many, many conquests. (And, boy, there were many. At the time, we think it was at about 50 (I was about No.45) and so I had a lot of targets for the pain.)

After we were tatted up, we decided to have a quick drink at the bar. (When the bartender heard where we’d just come from and what we had done, she gave us our first drinks for free because we were “brave girls.”) That was about 2pm. Around 7pm, we realized two things: we were not going to get to the party; and we were hungry.

We decided on a Thai restaurant nearby because one of the waiters had a crush on D. and always gave her a discount or created specials just for her.  Now, we weren’t so drunk that we thought D. was with us, we just knew that D.’s hotness eclipsed temporal and spatial portals and we’d still get a discount.

And even if we didn’t, nothing could spoil such a great day.

I miss Kim terribly. I hate that we never got to watch another Olympics opening ceremony. I hate that a boy took her away from me. I hate that our friendship ended in such a miserable way. But most of all I hate that American culture puts so much pressure on women to have the perfect wedding that my friend didn’t acknowledge my birthday because she was worried about whether or not she should have a koi pond at her wedding. 

Instagram Unofficial

OMG!!!!!! So this is interesting…

 

(But first, if you haven’t read the Elvis/Frankie posts you might need to for the following to make any sense.)

So, Frankie (or Middle Guy, as he shall be referred to from now on) has… wait, no, first let me tell you about my foray into Instagram…

So, if it weren’t for the fact that the Prettiest Boy Alive is on Facebook, I might not be either. I mean, my life is so effing boring. So, Facebook is the only social media I do. But I’d like to increase readership of this blog, so I thought I should get on Instagram. And because it was shortly after I had discovered Middle Guy, he was the first person I followed. I then slid into his DMs, attached a link to the post with "I wrote a blog post about you..." Pretty vanilla, right?

Then, after discovering the new guy and writing the post about him, I followed him and included a link to his post with the following: "I have a blog. You are the main subject of my latest post."

Before I signed off, I followed Newbie’s co-star, taking my following list to a grand total of three. 

Then for some reason I thought I should let Middle Guy know that he has been replaced, so once again into his DMs I went with a link to the Frankie post and this comment: "You have been replaced." Again, vanilla.

Then, a few days later, I went back and I noticed my Following list had dropped down to two. Now, my being new to Instagram, I thought I had done something wrong. So, I opened up my Following list… and Middle Guy wasn’t on there any longer!!!

Weird.

So, I searched for him again and this time I get this:

Weirder.

So, I call in help and asked E. what happens when she searches his name. And he came up for her.

Weirdest.

But this can (according to Google) mean only one thing – the fucker blocked me. I got the cyber version of a restraining order. WTF?

But why? I do not say anything bad about him in either of the posts in which he is featured. Or could it have something to do with the email I sent to his bookers (whilst plastered) telling him (because Drunk Me thought it was going to only him) that if he needed to cross off “Do A Fat Chick” from his Sexual To-Do list, I could help him with that?

But why block me? I showed only love for him. Did I come across as a crazed would-be stalker? I don’t think I did (feel free to tell me if I did). Could it be that he was so devastated I have a new crush, he couldn’t handle it?

But want to know something that only a sociopath with a death wish would enjoy? I kind of got a kick out of being blocked. Because, for one thing, he now knows who I am! And it kind of makes me a bad girl, right? Right?!!!

Frankie Has Left The Building

 

Newbies and those with bad memories might want to read this post (hereinafter referred to as the “First Crush Post”) and this post (hereinafter referred to as the “Second Crush Post”) for this post (hereinafter referred to as, um, “This Post”, I guess) to make any sense.

Yep, it has happened again: through the medium of television, I am once again crushing hard on a beautiful young man. Yes, the person who kicked Elvis/Austin out of my reveries has been kicked out by someone even hotter.

Oh! Now I remember something that has been bothering me. Not a single one of those (up to this point) 105 readers of the Second Crush Post reached out to ask who the new subject of my wet dreams was. And I didn’t realize I hadn’t included his name until a second look-see. I thought the accompanying pic might give away his identity, but then I realized the clue in the pic was quite abstruse. (I just learned that word today. I originally described the pic as obtuse but realized that that did not fit at all. So, I let Word do some Thesaurusing (a word I just now invented) on the word obtuse and we somehow ended up with abstruse. And it is kind of funny that this new-to-me word starts with “abs” because this new-to-me guy has abs for days.).

But, for the sake of my mental wellbeing, I am choosing to believe the pic wasn’t abstruse at all, and the reason none of the Original 105 reached out is because you all knew immediately who was now inflaming my loins, and it was not because none of you gave an eff who he was and couldn’t be arsed to ask me.

And because I did not reveal the identity of the hottie in the Second Crush Post, I am not going to reveal the identity of this new one. But, full disclosure, there is a not-at-all abstruse clue in this post that could lead you to No.2’s identity. And I am not going to get upset if none of you guess who this new one is because the picture above is the only clue to his identity and it is uber-abstruse. Or is it? I don’t know now, on a second viewing. Oy.

Anyway, this new one: suffice it to say he is smoking hot. And, like my two previous crushes, he is of the age where a Jocasta Complex is possible (but I’d rather it be Oedipal). But from what I remember of those myths, there would still be naughty parts touching, whomever initiated it.

I’d just been getting over Crush No.2 when this new guy popped up. The same windpipe/stomach issues came up immediately. I haven’t yet researched social media to see if he is active, but I am sure I won’t be able to hold out much longer. I think he’s single and I suspect he might be gay, but that could just be wishful thinking on my part (yes, I would rather have all my crushes be gay because then I know, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t land them (it’s the men’s prison sitch all over again)).

I don’t need this now. I am still slap-bang in the middle of my winter blues (but am glad it did not come a few weeks earlier because that would be slap-bang in both my winter blues AND my birthday blues).

I fucking wish I’d never fucking watched that fucking show in the first fucking place (Oh! One more than last time!).

Year in Review - 2025 Edition

So, in the two previous posts, I have made reference to how 2025 got off to rather a rough start (I even used the same pic twice!) but did not go into details. Let’s do that now. I am not going to include the aforementioned pic for a third time, but that rather colorful bruise resulted from my landing ass-first on a graveled part in the car park of where I live. I sat there, six minutes into 2025, pretty blotto, and had a feeling 2025 might be a bit of a shitshow. And, boy, was I ever right – at least for the first three months or so, that is. (I’d fallen trying to get a better view of the NYE fireworks. Not sure why because my first view was pretty much perfect.)

Technically, my 2025 got off to a bad start at around lunch time on NYE when I discovered my pick-up order from Wing Stop was wrong in every way it could possibly be – boneless wings instead of bone-in (which, let’s get this out of the way now, the very essence of a chicken wing are its bones. Without them, it is not a chicken wing, it is a chicken nugget and should always be described as such. Rant over); blue cheese dressing instead of ranch and – the very worst - carrot sticks instead of fries. Oh, the humanity.

I do wonder, however, if that way healthier lunch was part of my Higher Power’s way of trying to get me in shape. Because 2025 saw the closing of two of my favorite drinking and dining establishments (that makes five in the past three or four years). But a 24-hour liquor store did open up which I can get to without making a left turn, so suck on that, Higher Power.

So, yeah, the first three months of my 2025 also saw a Convicted Felon becoming president; a close family member diagnosed with Alzheimer’s; a crackhead running wild at the office; and someone attempting to break into my apartment in the middle of the night.

 

Those last two events were pretty effing scary but because of my being a sociopath with a death wish, they really didn't have that much effect on me.

But the rest of 2025 wasn’t too bad, apart from a $1,400 car bill (new tires, etc.) and $100 spent on hiring a handyman to do a few things around my apartment because I don’t have any male friends or butch female friends who’d do it for way cheaper; and the end of a 15-year friendship. 

Although that came about because of what was probably the highlight of my 2025: I became a radio star! Not really, but for a couple weeks in early October, the lucky listeners of the campus radio station were witness to my dulcet tones telling them about the upcoming Ren Faire. That was so much fun. I was given a short script and told to read it. I could not change the wording, and they did not want it done in any sort of accent except my own.

I sent the recording to a lot of friends. One of them replied with this:

 “Try this…Learning to speak passable faire Elizabethan is easy. It simply requires some practice of the pronunciation, and some memorization of common vocabulary.”

What the actual fuck? But coming from this particular person it really wasn’t much of a surprise; she has a very acidic tongue and when she insults or hurts someone, she blames it on their lack of a sense of humor. She reminds me of the “Bygones” guy in Ally McBeal. And she was oddly obsessed with my getting a boyfriend. When Sammy died, she wrote on Facebook “Well, at least you can get a boyfriend now.” One time, via text, she referenced an individual on 90 Day Fiancé who had a severe form of dwarfism and said, “If she can get a boyfriend, why can’t you?” This coming from someone who met her husband AT HER FRONT GATE. I’d been getting a little tired of her negative energy anyway, but this really was the last straw.

 

Health-wise, it was an interesting year. I started a new cocktail of pills that have helped me drop some OCD habits. For example, if I watch the very first episode of a TV show, I have to watch it until its bitter end, no matter if it has gotten crap or I have lost interest. Not now, though: I stopped cold turkey watching three TV shows, and mid-season too. That sort of behavior was unthinkable two years ago.

What else? I didn’t get a bird, despite desperately wanting to, because pretty much all my friends on Facebook warned me against it.

But I did dye my hair black, something I have wanted to do for a very long time. Interestingly, this led to my discovery that hair dye does not, in fact, grow out; rather, it fades out. I’d never noticed this when I was dying my hair just two or three shades lighter. I loved my hair black, it really brought out my inner goth chick (Elsinore) and when I am in the position to get it done professionally and regularly, I will.

And that is about it really for my 2025. I have reconnected with some of my college cohort, and some interesting things have come from that that I might include here. And on the fifth anniversary of this post, I intend to do a follow-up because it has proven to be quite interesting.

So, I am going to leave you with a quote I found that well, I could have written it, because, since Sammy has gone, completely sums up how I feel: