I’ve written a book. It’s three or four drafts done. Thank you, thank you, stop, seriously please – your applause is appreciated. Sitting outside on my patio moments ago I decided I’d send the most current version of it to my mother and brother. I am not eager for their opinions, though my mom read a previous version and branded it mom-approved. I am flying on Sunday though, from LIR to EWR, and as such my motive behind sending this draft is clear, at least to me. I will ask that should the plane come crashing down, or explode on take-off, or disappear in The Bermuda Triangle despite our route coming no where close to it, or skip the runway and head straight into a crowded highway, where everyone survives except me due to exiting the plane only to step in front of a speeding cement truck – that mom or my bro take the time to get it polished and published for me. Of course the very same doom and gloom logic should dictate that I forward a draft every time I leave the house – I’ve seen one or two cement trucks here in Samara, and I can’t be positive, but I think one of them had a Howler Monkey behind the wheel. If I think about it long enough I am certain to cc each and everyone of you on that email – as inventing a scenario in which the great majority of my friends meet their demise that day as well, will probably consume sixty percent or so of the hours I have left before that fateful flight. The other forty percent of my time will be spent wondering if posting this was good or bad mojo for said flight.