Cranky Large Medium reading, 6 April

Go away.

Why are you still lolling about on my mountainside? Did somebody convince you that you were an ibex? I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you, you are somebody's goat, but not that sort. What's that you say? You're not a goat? I'll be the judge of that... still, you seem to have some other goal in mind, here, so break it to me gently, please. Ah, the reading! You want me to tell you about yourself (other than the bit about the horns). That I'll do. And here you are:

You are a complete bookworm and introvert. You would rather spend a weekend with the Brontë sisters or Samuel Clemens than an actual, currently breathing companion. You could carry on a decent conversation, if pressed, but are too stuffy to engage in light banter. You are overly-domestic, but live within yourself until somebody trips your trigger, at which time you become dangerous to yourself and anybody near you.

Are you happy, now? Of course not. Everybody's a critic, and I wasn't trying to produce the next Great American Novel, anyway. I'm just fine getting the miserable news out. And, you should be thankful, too. At least you're still able to critique my work, unlike these people, all of whom, on this date in history, put their papers' final editions to bed: King Richard I (the Lionheart), Albert Sidney Johnston, Rainier III, Niels Henrik Abel, José Bonifácio de Andrade e Silva, Jules Bordet, Otto Struve, Saint Methodius, Joachim Vadian, John Stow, Alexander Kielland, Elizabeth Bacon Custer, Edwin Arlington Robinson, Isaac Asimov, Raphael, Albrecht Dürer, Willem van de Velde, the younger, Vladimir Borovikovsky, Igor Stravinsky, Wendy O. Williams, Tammy Wynette, Niki Sullivan, Greer Garson, Maurice Stokes, Sidney Franklin, Maggie Dixon, Francis Walsingham, Sam Sheppard, David Bloom,

and Red Norvo.

I'm getting some unusual vibes, here.
Happy birthday, anyway.