When I tell you to lift me up above the crowd at the party, you ask how high. That is awesome. Really awesome.
You ask me to kill that bug. I mean it is a scream, frankly, or at the very least a shriek. Afterwards, I realize I used your Mensa day-to-day calendar. Forgive me. It was so close to making it under the armoire, and I didn't really have time to look for a newspaper or anything.
I hear you have serious ass cancer; I hear it's fatal.