You will perish of fits. Repeat this to yourself:
“Things can work out even if I don’t get
my way. Things can work out even….”
Well, well, well. I guess we always knew it would come to this. I took this little quiz. . .and. . . according to the powers that be, I will “perish of fits.” I truly thought that my little not-a-blog would be so therapeutic that I would not die, or perish, of fits. I throw my fits onto this little page in order to lengthen my lifespan and keep from climbing atop a tower with a high-caliber weapon. But, in the end, it won’t have helped enough, it seems.And it’s not like I can even dismiss the whole thing — I happen to be an Edward Gorey fan. I love his macabre art. It all goes back to being fascinated by all things dark and creepy. Like the old insane asylums. I think we talked about that already. Oh, we didn’t? Humor me then — I’m on my deathbed here.
I don’t know why I’m surprised, actually. There are enough things that happen in the course of a day, enough, well, you know, enough people that I encounter on a regular basis, to send me into that last fit, the big one. I’ve come down with Adamitis already this week. It’s just a matter of time, you know.
As Maxine says, “I keep hitting ‘escape,’ but I’m still here.”
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With apologies to Stew, who did this a couple of days ago. Remember, it’s not plagiarism if you admit to the theft!