Bobby...you know...THAT Bobby...Bobby Burns. Whaat? You don't know who Bobby Burns is? "Wee slickit tim'rous beastie..."? Yes, the Scottish poet Bobby Burns. It's his birthday, and they are having a "gathering" here in Mt Rainier to which i was invited and then disinvited. I was invited at 5:30 to a gathering that starts at 6:30. "We'll pick you up!" etc. At 7:05, I get a message: "The gathering is not at the house where we thought. It's at another house, and this one has a CAT!!! So sorry...."
At 5:30, I also was told to "bring a pie, though that's not necessary." (NOT NECESSARY?!) Sorry...not even I can make a frickin pie in an hour! It would take me 45 minutes to get to the frozen food section in Giant and back, and then I'd have to bake the daggone thing. Besides, on Burns Day, you need to make neeps & tatties!!! That would have been fun, had I had an afternoon in which to plot and peel and boil and mash and bake within a pie crust.
As it is, here I am alone with a glass of Jack Daniels. I am fresh out of The Famous Grouse, mother's milk of Scotland.
Well, happy birthday, Bobby...or Robbie, or Rabbie. You served your time well. And you wrote good poems, too, though I blush to admit I only know that one line (quoted above).
I give up. I am totally unfit for social life. I accept my fate. Ta hell with all of it.