I Hope You All Enjoy Your Fine Products.

Oh, MW, I've never seen you lookin' so ... apt. There are three categorizations of spat up blood (hemoptysis, in some circles): trivial, minor and massive. Maybe its just me, but I always thought there was a pretty big semantical gap between minor and massive. I mean, to me, losing, say, a pet, would be massive, but to some people, it is trivial. Whatever it costs, I can't afford it, so will you marry me? So I can make informed healthcare choices on your behalf? Am I hard to shop for? Maybe, I don't know. When I was a little girl, about seven or eight, we had this creative writing assignment: make a list of all of the things you want for Christmas, and even then I couldn't do it; and I was a lot more creative then and a better writer, too. Now I'm aging and pneumatic (and neologic, looks like) and all I want for Christmas is on-demand anal, a Mexican maid, universal healthcare, and anything you write for me or make for me. If I died in a fiery car wreck, would you erect a cross on the side of the road with my nickname on it? And plant 3200 rose bushes around? And would you have a memorial service there on the anniversary of my death and say, "That was one fine gal who valued herself only as independently as she thought and as ethically as she acted and she was easy to please, too." Because that is exactly what I would not have wanted.