in the stairwell I did so to mock you

in your ascension? In the years you’ve

honored me by sitting in the cubicle

next to mine, snorting for all you’re worth,

I mean really digging down deep, going

for the core, for the gold, following your

dream, giving it one hundred and ten

percent, delving to the very roots of your

being to strike the mother lode of mucous,

coming up with one bone-rattling humdinger

after another, piling personal best upon

personal best, have you ever known me

to reply in kind before? Isn’t it much more

likely that what you heard was an echo

of your own self-expression? After all,

your presence is so much larger than life,

and the acoustics here are superb, perfect

for accentuating your operatic flourishes

in the same way that just the right setting

of gold brings out the best in a fine gem

stone. Or maybe it was your soul snorting.

They do snort, you know. As do fairies

and angels. Even the late, great Princess

Di is known to have belted out a few right

royal old snorts on special occasions.

Some of the world’s most respected

theologians have suggested that God

himself is not above rearing back and

letting go with a blast on high now and

again. So, snort to your heart’s content.

Fish gotta swim. Birds gotta fly. And it

appears that you just gotta snort. So be

true to your destiny and become, through

dint of both inherent skill and arduous

practice, not just a run-of-the-mill snorter,

but a member of that small circle of divas

whose members can truly be called rip

snorters. Please, feel free to blast away

without fear of mockery or contempt

from this humble quarter.