No. I did not die in New York.
I've been home for a whole week and yet I have said nothing to you, my faithful reader. Do I feel bad about this? Naturally, reader. Of course, I am assailed by guilt. Pretty much every lazy, inertia-based thing I [don't] do assails me with guilt. There is, therefore, a lot of guilt hovering around me, Pigpen-style. My aura is guilt-colored, which might make amends to some degree, but is hardly the same as actually going to the grocery store, now is it? Or the gym. Or reviewing my Italian. Or reading a book instead of watching television. On and on it goes.
I had a really delightful time in New York and I'll tell you all about it. However, I seem to be having a rough re-entry. Mi dispiache. (Ha! Look! Italian review! Things are already improving. I'll be back here soon.)
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