Oh no! I set the alarm wrong. I’m three hours late to the time I meant to start writing this. I need emergency help. I have to call my muse.
My muse, Cindy Holly, is my only hope for getting this column written in the time I have between now and deadline.
Cindy Holly, Muse of Other, Muse of Few Words, of ageless surpassing beauty, who was a brunette with neon purple streaks the last time I saw her, muses for only one human at a time, — sorry, guys. She has at least once turned me into a horse in my sleep when I misbehaved and is my only hope.