I am resurfacing from the muck of dread sickness, struggling to lift myself from the impossibly luxuriant 4500 thread-count sheets and heirloom quilt (hand-stitched by angels!) that adorn my four-poster deathbed, and peeking out from behind the gossamer netting that keeps visitors from seeing clearly the ravages my illness has inflicted upon me, just to say this:
“Jewelry” is not pronounced “JOOL-uh-ree”.
Now, if you’ll pardon me, I must ease myself back into traction and dream pretty dreams of giggling, yellow-haired, translucent-skinned children bouncing on colorful Hippity-Hops down a lollipop-lined lane. I sure hope the Afterlife is as sweet!