nothing about, and blue balls. She found herself a younger stud with more money, and the rest is history. Mind you, so is Sally, but I’m still working my ass off to clean up her mess. And my nuts still hurt a lot. All that’s part of an explanation of why I’m sitting here on the aft deck of a 32-foot sailing sloop, by myself, on the west coast of Vancouver Island, with not a soul within a hundred miles. Well, maybe there are one or two, but I can’t see them, and they can’t