Cranky Large Medium reading, 5 December

Go away.

What are you still here for? It's not as though I'm a hotelier, or anything. There's no food, drink or bed available, so nobody is expected to hang about. But then, you seem intent upon getting something from me... Oh, right. The reading. So you want to know what your life is all about. Well, here you are:

You are an uptight prude who wouldn't appreciate a gentle white lie if your life depended upon it. Your calm demeanor relaxes some, but then, so did Ted Bundy's. Your wardrobe is that of a dandy, particularly inappropriate when you want to enjoy the out-of-doors. Marry young, to somebody who is oblivious to your faults, and you will be happy.

Are you happy, now? Of course not. Not only did you not marry appropriately, you don't like hearing that your life will not be perfect. Well, toots, I hate to break it to you, but it could be worse. You could be like all these people who, on this date in history, became worm food: Pizí, Aleksandr Vasilevsky, Al Gore, Sr., Gaspard Bauhin, James Stirling, Joseph Erlanger, Robert Watson-Watt, Franco Rasetti, Saint John of Damascus, Shri Aurobindo, Phillis Wheatley, Alexandre Dumas, père, Nicholas Vachel Lindsay, Claude Monet, Louis Dewis, Severo Bonini, Johann Friedrich Fasch, Karl Amadeus Hartmann, Doug Hopkins, Robert Aldrich, Fred Clark, "Shoeless" Joe Jackson, Roone Arledge, Glenn L. Martin, Claudius Dornier, Richard Speck,

and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

Lacrimosa dies. The rest of us, no tears.
Happy birthday, anyway.