Of late, the only thing I find more wearying than the rapid, geometric growth of my cynicism, is the frequency with which I receive new clues that I'm a naive, trusting, fool, and need to learn that nothing is what it seems, everyone is lying, and the reason I saw the rug move just now is that "they" just got a death grip on it in preparation for jerking it decisively out from under me.
O.B.T.W. (Oh, by the way): I remain troubled by the fact that daughter does not rhyme with laughter but it does rhyme with slaughter.