The day after I submitted my Quentin the Question Mark (who, by the way, is renamed Quiting—not really an interesting story there, but could probably tell you next time), I take those la-la-la quizzes about ourselves—this is what we do when we, as the Polymath says, have no life—and I am told that Quentin, and apparently I, will sink into a mire.
And what are the odds: immediately after I watch tonight's episode of Jeopardy!, from which I learned that chicken fat is called shmaltz, I am told that all I really want to do is roll around in chicken fat.
The Polymath, of course, has recently assured me that the chicken is the sickest animal on the planet.
Yeehaa.
What horrible Edward Gorey Death will you die?
You will sink in a mire. You like to think you're normal, but deep down you really just want to strip off your clothes and roll around in chicken fat.
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