Something happened this week that compels me to write. On Thursday morning, I spied a little boy, likely aged three or four, walking with assistance of a medical walker. Smiling and giggling, the boy probably knew not of his handicap. It delivered tears to my eyes because this joyful little boy had bent legs and a face that indicated some sort of brain disease. And he was joyful. He was living with a smiling heart. Three hours later, I spied the same little boy. Smiling and giggling. Trudging forward with his medical walker. And it made me feel so very stupid for moaning and groaning about the injured bone in my right foot, about the injured shin of my left leg. I shall never again complain about my “problems.” Mind you, these complaints have always been silent, in my brain, but the silent complaining hereby stops. This joyful boy has really affected me. It really makes the old eating disorder and battle with yoga seem as so very shallow. I hope that I shall win the PowerBall tomorrow because if I do, in addition to donating the campaign maximum up to one million dollars to President Trump, in addition to creating a fancy animal hospital in Chicago, in addition to creating the Gwendolyn Sophia Foundation to save puggles and greyhounds, in addition to cloning of Gwendolyn, in addition to creating Vegan Empire aka the vegan McDonalds Ray Kroc style, I shall find that little boy, offer to him the experience to pet Gwendolyn, and I shall pay for his medical care forever. Namaste.