"Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off--then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can."
You know it's going to be a long day when you ask for onions instead of broccoli in your salad, and not only do they bring you a salad piled high with broccoli but they also charge you fifty cents for extra broccoli. Oh, the daily indignities I must suffer in post-industrial America.
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