From a letter I'm not sure I sent, but hope I did...
Monsters must linger under beds. They look ridiculous anywhere else.
"Even closets?" I hear you offer, skeptically.
"No, that is where skeletons live, and we need not fear them. They're just bones."
An easy fix would be to sleep standing up; as stallions are want to do, or switch to a hammock; like Gilligan. Yet we both know the symptom is not the disease...
Now I'm no doctor, but I do have a Nan from St. John's and she used to cure warts with vegetables - Follow me, I'm sure I have a point.
Nanny would grab a potato fresh from the garden and cut off a peel, she'd then trace a crucifix on the little imperfections and bury the peel somewhere out in the garden.
She'd come back, wash her hands and say, "It's buried. Now, forget about it."
St. Johns dermatologists would fail to reproduce Nanny O'leary's cure-all Potato Peel: I suspect that they used store bought; always use fresh.
But allow me to offer the treatment for emotional grievances.
Heed Nanny's words: Bury your grief. Forget it. You don't need it anymore.
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