The thing is, I don't have the world experience to write deep soul-searching articles about the Really Deep Shit like she does. I don't have the experience with anything but the shallow stuff. So I'm writing a mostly serious and very helpful article about the shallow crap, and she steams at me for treating the subject lightly, and I steam back that this is what I know, and if I tried to write deep articles about Deep Stuff then I'd look worse on paper than Silver Ravenwolf. (General apologies to anyone who likes her writing -- your taste in literature is your own business. Her writing is just not read in our house, except for fun, to make commentary and technical corrections. I'm sure she's a nice person; she just doesn't really make herself clear on paper.) I ended up stomping into my room and slamming the door.
I've been on edge these last two or three days. Usually I'd just sigh and give it up. Today I felt like making an issue out of it. And just now I got bonked on the shoulder with a duct-tape weapon and jumped upon he who did it, unfairly using my performance-trained lungs. Don't touch me when I don't see you and my ears are covered, especially while I'm writing, unless you're one specific person, that person being either Darkside, or Darkside's good alter ego Best Friend the Gentleman.