It's been said before by better people than me, but I'll say it again--the new Blogger comments blow. If you use them and you aren't hearing from me much anymore, it isn't because I'm not there, it's because the damned things never load. So, lucky you, I guess! Way to shut me up.
If one were to find a black spot on one's tongue, and one were to freak out and Google the hell out of that fucker, one would find nothing but references to Labrador retrievers, sarcoma, HIV, and the Black Death. Then one might (just might, mind you), consider that the weird skin thingy on one's calve might actually not be just a weird skin thingy like the dermatologist said, but might instead actually be the first sign of some impending Horrible Wasting Death. Then one might be forced to locate the Chica every, oh, 5 minutes, to ask her whether one looked more pallid than usual. And it's a good thing she's one's best friend, because otherwise her suggestion that it might just be some sort of canker sore could be taken as just a little laissez faire, if you know what one means, just a little too "oh, well, sure you might be dying, but could you possibly be overreacting?" And one can't have that kind of attitude getting around, now can one?
Here's what makes me crazy (number 8452): when I tell someone how much we love those Junie B. Jones books and they say, "Oh, well, we can't read those at our house, they're just a little too rough, you know, a little too wild. I think they might be a bad influence." Because we love them so much because the Boy IS Junie B. Jones. So cut Junie B. some friggin' slack, people.
Did I mention that I have the Black Death? Either that, or I'm turning into a Lab. Woof.