So first of all, I would just like to go on record as saying that I know that this is not at all the kind of story I should be telling  on Easter. But what can I say? I am just the messenger. I can’t help when these stories come to me and ask to be told.

Also, I pretty much figured that I screwed the Easter pooch way back on Easter of 1990 when my then-boyfriend (and current husband) and I went with his cousins to watch “Pretty Woman” on Easter night, a movie which, as you may recall, features a prostitute as one of its main characters. And I’ve pretty much just gone downhill from there.

So, as I was saying. If you have ever spent more than 35 seconds around me in real life, you are most likely extremely familiar with my ongoing lament which asks, WHY CAN’T ANYONE ELSE BUT ME NAME AND DEFINE THE EIGHT PARTS OF SPEECH?! HELLO, STATEWIDE ENGLISH DEPARTMENT FAIL! (I know. I am a blast at parties.)

However luckily for everyone involved, I am generally able to forget all about this now that I pretty much spend all my time managing this whole chronic illness situation.

But not today.

Unsuspectingly enough, my husband and I decided to get out of the house and spend some time together this afternoon, and so we went over to our recently gentrified little downtown with its porch swings and water-shooty-fountain-thing. (Because half-naked toddlers lurching around like drunken sailors=AWESOME!)

So we sat down together on a swing and started swaying and snuggling, and then my gaze drifted over to the wooden support post holding up our swing. And of course there was graffiti. And of course there was swearing in the graffiti. And of course there was the use of the “f-word” in the swearing in the graffiti. Except…IT WAS MISSPELLED.

And there began the ride of the first horseman of the Apocalypse.