Yesterday my BFF Squinny died. I’m not certain if I really want him dead yet, so I might retract my last blog post, or maybe I’ll ignore the fact that Squinny is dead and continue to write as if he were alive. If I do that, people will probably call me a liar, or non-linear, or King Lear or Liar Pants. Mom says I shouldn’t deny reality or lie unless it serves a greater good like the time she lied to get fifty bucks for gas. She didn’t have a car back then. Mom says I shouldn’t lie when inappropriate but lying is always appropriate, especially when it’s done discreetly, like lies between lovers or cats. If Squinny is dead dead, but he is alive in my head, does that mean he is not dead until I reach the age of dementia praecox? I hate socks and the White Socks and anything that ends with cox. I hate baseball even though my new friend loves baseball. I pray because I think she’s insane for watching men playing with a ball and bat with their clothes on. Squinny never wanted to play baseball, but he loved to play dress up and Showgirls & Indians. I bet you want to know why I call Squinny, Squinny. Well, I’m never going to tell. If I did, it would ruin his reputation as a deity.