So Sayeth the Angel, "ELECTROshock, Idiot!"

Here's a little story to help you drift off tonight...

Round about eight o'clock tonight, I was lying in bed, watching the encore season finale of “The Flavor of Love," 'cause, I missed it last Sunday due to drunken circumstances, and as usual, I was enjoying myself immensely, loving New York and her devious, Satanic ways, digging on her unique insanity, when all of a sudden, an angel came to me. She hovered over my bed, bright as the Mexican sun, and said to me this: "Ms. Lori, your grammar skills are slipping."

I told her she was losing her holy mind. "Me? What exactly are you implying here, Miss GlowyPants? My grammar is perfect, always. I am a true grammarian of the highest order, and I don't appreciate you coming down here to hassle me, woman."

And the angel replied, "That may be -- sometimes. But you sure screwed up royally on your blog posts about the Rolling Hills Ghost Hunt."

"The hell I did."

The angel smiled, shook her head sadly, then waved her delicate, obscenely boney hand across the span of my bed, and before my weary eyes appeared my Rolling Hills Ghost Hunt posts. It was awesome. All three-dimensional-y and sparkly...Sublime, beautiful. But as I admired my shimmering words, chuckling ever so softly at my own humor -- praising myself, really -- it dawned on me that something just wasn't right. Not right at all.

Goddamned angel was spot on. I royally screwed up, and my once swollen head deflated with an audible, swift shhhhhffffttttttt.

The angel laughed and laughed, and kept on laughing till my beloved New York faded from the TV screen. I blinked back tears of anger, tears of wonder, of gratitude, then ran the fuck up here to my office and fixed my...

Oh, this is so hard...

Mistakes.

Good night, everyone. And God bless!