Sometimes you just have to bite the bullet

Sometimes you just have to bite the bullet and finish a story. It's a messy business. The pressure to conclude the story is like making a joke to a crowd, you really hope it

neither falls flat nor comes back to bite you in the end. Unless your aim is to hang fire, do not sit on the folding fence. No hemming or hawing, seesawing or playing

with yourself. All strictly forbidden. At least discouraged, anyway. Besides, good folding fences make good neighbors, so they need to remain intact. Now, I know your neighbor is a

a guy who loves flatulence folds & the other neighbor seems infatuated with folds having something to do with a talking marine mammal detective, but don't let them phase you. Fold

to your own beat. As we let our own folds shine, we give others permission to do the same. So let your freak flag fly. Fold, baby, fold! Picture your fold as a

possible epitaph, your last words, a reflection of who you truly are as a human, or an alien, as the case may be. DO NOT TAKE IT LIGHTLY! Centuries from now, your final fold may

be read aloud to trillions of simultaneous viewers on a futuristic History Channel. Face it, we are living fossils! Make every step count for the future, including your folds.

That Mr. Spock's offspring were not drinking fluoridated water, Coke or koolaid. Their idea of smartphones was the exploding inevitable that Warhol dreamed about.

So T'pring took great pride in the caricatured selfies her grandchildren sent via social media, but urged them to invest in implants as well.