I have been under the weather this week and literately spent most of it in bed. Pain in my back had traveled from my knees to my shoulders and, then, a gentle spirit gave me a handful of Vicodin, and the pain went away and the sleep came back. Sleep has always been a problem for me; my youngest brother died at the age of twenty-one from a little known sleep disorder. He could sleep at the most one hour a night and it gradually broke him down and he died.
Meanwhile, I spent much of my lucid time talking with Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish (the hefty one on the right) about what to do about that Baroness Seitzinger. One thought was to auction off all her belongings here and donate the money to a good charity, like the home for gay teenagers, Pridelines.
The continued barrage of pictures announcing her new residence and these pretensions have to stop. We decided to use our contacts at the Dept. of Defense to buy a drone to take her out if she doesn't cease her obvious intention of marrying a broke Earl so we would have to refer to her as "Lady" Seitzinger.