Eh? Say what? Now wait just a mo …
A recount? Whiskey! Tango! Foxtrot!
No … take a deep breath. Another. Now is the apposite time to exhibit the grace and gravitas for which I am so justifiably celebrated.
True, the Big Clit did middle-finger me. True, lesser authors shimmied off the stage with golden statuettes clasped in damp, undeserving palms.
Well, fine. Congrats to you boys. You … you … boys.
(While my suspicions have not yet risen to courtroom levels, the whispers that my box was stealthily emptied are rife. That's Ballot Box, you gomers!
NB: I do not expect the winning writers to summon the moral energy to right this flagrant wrong. Nor would I accept any belated awards, no matter how amply deserved …)
Of course none of this - my getting trounced, those … boys … winning everything - really concerns me since I pay absolutely no attention to reader scores.
Whatev,
Paige