I was going to say "laugh," then I revised down to "giggle," but heck, I did NOT giggle. What did I really really feel? Oh about something closer to a meaningful yawn, trenchantly speaking. (If you like that trenchant word, try reading the novel Death with Interruptions, I think you could really really relate.)
And, despite the absence of your victoriously vindictive, and, oh yes, scintillating presence, my traffic continues to rise.
Sorry to burst your fake balloon.
You'll have to hide out elsewhere to get even with the circus that done you wrong, or with me for not having bestowed a fake glowing review upon your secret squeeze, or, what else? Oh yes, or to trash the cats that do things yours never could do, things that even those who stole away your spotlight still can't do.
But, take some heart. You nudged me a little to shovel this lazy post onto the midway. I'm having a mini-riot of impromptu fun. Call it SELF OCCUPY SHOWBIZ DAVID.
Nice feeling, once and a while in Life, clearing the decks, chasing cobwebs into their well deserved anonymity (haha! Clever, that?) doing a little pithy purging (notice how generous I am in avoiding cliches like "spring cleaning"), opening the windows wet and letting fresh stale air inside the tent.
So, Mr. Big Little A, my suggestion is this: Get a life. Or a better Lie. Or Lay.
And if that doesn't work, perhaps a brain transplant?