I am endeavoring at all costs to avoid this crude and vulgar British man. His name is Jack Ketch and perhaps he imagines that his endless mental looping will fascinate an American girl like me, but he is wrong about that. I am horrified to see his beady eyes staring out from the page at me. At me? I must be out of my mind to think that he is looking at me because obviously I am not a known person over there, my ancestors long gone from that unbearable place, and besides I would not fit there. My place is America. Just because I once thought of writing my autobiography, that does not mean that my life's story merits being thrown into the same category as infamous autobiographical author Jack Ketch. As Jack himself has said, "...a tribe of literary locusts, called autobiographers, is at this moment enveloping the atmosphere of letters in Egyptian darkness; a Cimmerian gloom which neither the rod of Moses, nor any other rod with which I am acquainted, is able to disperse." Fortunately, I have not yet ventured pen to paper on my autobiography, despite what I said at age 10, because obviously I would have to have something in my head to say and as yet, nothing of significance comes to mind. Perhaps I will die first and spare myself the trouble of writing. After all, as Jack has said, "Death is the great overtaker of all our schemes; these thwarted, he makes room for the undertaker."
