We're pathologically social. We're professional leisurists. We're burrito lovers, bar flies, art whores and music nerds. We dish the good dirt, and we'll risk a parking ticket for a cheap sample sale. Sometimes, we blog drunk.
Ward begs: Please save Eunice.
I'm currenty in the woods in a tiny town called Whitehall (population: my parents).
My phone—let's call her "Eunice"—decided to take a dip in a sink of soapy water. While I'm happy she has an interest in aquatic athletics, I'm now concerned for her mortality.
I grabbed Eunice of of the sink, took out her battery and administered an emergency blowdry. Then I set her atop my parents' wood stove to dry her electronic organs, and she flickered to life long enough to Bluetooth her brain (and you assorted comrades' numbers) onto my Mac.
But (sob) she's slipped into darkness again. I think she needs a battery transplant, or just time to recover. If you're texting me, or wondering why I don't call back, please know that little Eunice, my fuschia phone, my portal to communicating, is very sick right now. Do Cwithmath miracles exist?
We'll see.
(Eunice and I, in better times.)
Happy holidays from the wilderness,
-A hopeful Miss Alie Ward
PS- Not in the wilderness? Enjoy some redonkulousness this week. Oh, and get ready for New Year's.
Miss Alie Ward
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