Again.
I can picture her now: seated at her writing desk with a goose quill in her hand, her faithful hound Barnaby Jones Pickles seated at her feet (artistic licence), a huge powdered wig perched atop her head with bottles of Xanax and vodka secreted away in its hidden depths. A sheet of parchment gradually filling with elegant curlicued copperplate as she channels the spirit of Nancy W. Kappes, paralegal.
You go, girl!
