Let Me Be Your Emily

Folks, I have had the most restful vacation ever. I didn’t see anyone I didn’t want to see. I faced no crowds. I went to bed when I was tired and got up when I wasn’t. I took long, hot showers. I drove around some.

But most importantly, I came to realize that I’m just one in a large mess of eccentrics and that if wandering around Middle Tennessee with my dog and hanging out on the internet makes me happy, I’m not going to worry too much that it makes me weird. I am weird.

But I was thinking how awesome this would be if it were always my life. So, to that end, I’m offering to be your Emily.

For a mere $50,000 a year, I will come and live in your house, not really talk to you, hide from most of your guests, flirt shamelessly with your minister and your sister-in-law, and write about what may or may not have happened in cryptic entries here on Tiny Cat Pants.

You must accommodate Mrs. Wigglebottom and my benign neglect of any housework.

Just think of the contribution you’d be making to American arts & letters.