It finally happened.

I feared this day.  I lit an abundance of abundance candles and I recited incantations in shadowy rooms to stop this day from ever arriving.  I contemplated how I could tunnel my way to another astral plane just in case this day ever appeared on the hazy horizon, much like those prisoners from upstate New York Shawshanked their way to freedom before they were shot.  But I suppose a part of me didn’t believe any of it could really happen so I ceased my prayers and stopped my chanting and discontinued the exhausting practice of mailing out warning letters to publishing houses that were addressed with little letters I cut out of magazines in my own form of a ransom note and so part of me now blames myself for the single most horrible thing to ever happen to the written word since a Kardashian earned an A in penmanship in the third grade.

Please grasp the hand of the person closest to you – and if you’re currently alone, grab onto a wall – as I relay the hideous news that Ramona Singer has written a book that will be released into a world that’s still dealing with ISIS and global warming and relationships formed on The Bachelor that won’t even last as long as a penicillin cycle.  The book is called Life On the Ramona Coaster.  Ramona’s face is on the cover.  There are people out there who will buy the book and then display it on a bookshelf.  And if someone even thinks of buying me a copy, I will strap that person to a chair and make him listen to every single word of Ulysses as it’s read by Jill Zarin while her scrawny and shaky dog scurries around his feet.