Grampa Simpson: "I feel the clammy hand of death on my shoulder--wait, that's my hand!"
Dreamed of being a preacher who'd been in politics and was now a long-shot applicant to fill a faculty post at a university; joining the other applicants in a hall where the ceiling had a fading map of the world painted on the same corrugated metal they make Quonset huts out of; the applicants being challenged with a whodunit mystery where the culprit turned out to be the academic who knew foreign languages.
Father and I did the book-selling accounts for the first months of last year. Only April had a big profit.
Dinner was chicken.
Went out to the Socrates Cafe Meetup but nobody else showed up.
Started recording our opera lines for Franco.
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