I purchased your love letters. I blogged about you. Then, you died. Your niece googled your obituary. Now she knows your secrets.
| S | M | T | W | T | F | S |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 |
| 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 |
| 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 |
| 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 |
| 29 | 30 | 31 | ||||
I purchased your love letters. I blogged about you. Then, you died. Your niece googled your obituary. Now she knows your secrets.
“Trying to be a first-rate reporter on the average American newspaper is like trying to play Bach’s St. Matthew’s Passion on a ukulele.”
© 2006–2009 Spitball Army — Sitemap — Cutline by Chris Pearson
1 response so far ↓
1 Anna Mistretta // Jan 31, 2010 at 6:10 PM
Secrets are meant to be secrets, not put on the internet. Some would be (or possibly are?) devastated to know….
[Admin.: But we’ll never be able to find out if they are or not, because they use false e-mail addresses to validate their comments on other persons’ websites.]
Leave a Comment