In her present good health the vet says she could have another four years. And after the fate that probably would have met her if I hadn't come along, anything else is gravy.
Attica likes gravy.
Just now, during jury selection, I wrote a fragment patterned after one of my favorite poems.
I'd better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of seven hundred tablets of Paxil three tibias an unpublished private literature confined in a variety of small spaces and a throbbing, unanswerable celibacy.
I say nothing about my stick figures nor the terminally ill cat with twenty-five percent less ear than she ought to have.
I am already writing about vampires, zombies are next on the list.
My ambition is to be a novelist despite the fact that I can't drink.