Confident Calumny
My own filters are more poppycock-permeable than I’d assumed.
My own filters are more poppycock-permeable than I’d assumed.
An invitation to tea with the Lord sounds, well, heavenly.
I can’t explain, even to myself, why I’ve taken such pains to keep one previous owner’s “Streaky Bay Parish Announcer” bulletin from December ’65 in its proper page.
This is not a ministry to the lost.
I can’t very well store it in my office as usual—five weeks into the semester, I have yet to receive a key.
Eleven months in, we’re still getting bills from the recalcitrant United HealthCare, our ostensible health insurer.
Oh no, Hallmark, I think it’s quite likely I already care far too much about the assorted unnecessary objects in that unasked-for packet.