(the swedish plot to overthrow america: pt1)

In the past week, these, ahem, “people” have called me – what was their term? it was actually pretty cute. – “the three a’s” – arrogant, aloof, and assholish. Granted, I’m not what you’d call a reliable reporter, but, really, did they have to invent a word?

None of this would have happened if I hadn’t been raised Southern Baptist.

Not that it matters.

This isn’t about predestination or millennialism or dancing. Well, it’s kind of about dancing. But it definitely isn’t about those other things.

Nope. It’s about Anya.

I don’t care what you’ve heard from those “people,” but Anya was most definitely not some dimestored, miniskirted prophet. And I can prove it. Kind of.

Ah, Anya.

Anya’s the reason haikus hum. Anya’s “umm” put the “oo” in moon and “o” in blow. Anya’s shadow was like dark, fluid, sensual something.

When you close your eyes and think of a woman, Anya’s it.

How do I know, dear reader? Well, that’s the point, really, of this whole sordid mess.

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