Life can be so great. Sometimes I'm convinced that God is trying to hand me my ass on a platter. This is a true story. Zero embellishment, simply because none is required. At 4:30 on the morning of my husband's funeral, I was awakened by a noise in the kitchen. I thought it was Charlotte, maybe getting a snack or a drink of water, and I thought she shouldn't be eating at a time like this. Poor Charlotte, she is probably so nervous and sick and depressed. Now she is up in the middle of the night trying to calm her nerves. Damn you, Dave. She is such a good friend to me. We've been friends so long, how long has it been? 20 years? And just like that, really quietly, there is a black man standing in my bedroom. I watched him walk in. He wore a black baseball cap, black bandana around his face, black shirt, black jeans. He wasn't that tall. He looked pretty young, and he pointed his gun towards us, holding it sideways for extra thug-like emphasis. He stood quietly by my door and said "Where da money? Where da safe?"
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