Stop it.

 

Erica needs to stop. Like actually Erica, I do not know what I’ve done to deserve your narration of my every action. It serves you right that you’ve found yourself incapable of saving your draft.

All I want to do is sit here quietly and watch Mr. Rogers neighborhood, and Erica sits next to me in her restless way, eavesdropping with her eyes and writing fallacious nonsense about Mr. Rogers “carrying a yellow plastic bag with dog crap in it” (No. The bag contains pretzels. He doesn’t even have a dog. He has a turtle. And sometimes a goldfish! ) and being in a “shady garage” (shady does not exist on Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood!!) Also Erica, dear foe, it was not butter but YEAST that they were putting into the pretzel dough. You cannot make pretzels without YEAST.

Once again, Spindle Fingers Erica cannot resist the urge to denounce and defile all that is kindly and nurturing. Like all of my happy moments, she destroyed what might have been a delightful viewing of a delightful show. Plus, she didn’t even have sufficient motivation to conclude her mad ramblings with a finished sentence. Instead she just let it all trail off into

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