It got the Greeks in some serious trouble.
Not those Greeks, the ones with the deficit and fiscal mismanagement and street protests (although, on second thought, maybe those ones as well).
But the ones in Sophocles' plays, in togas, who went around flouting the natural laws of the gods and were smitten (smote?) down as a result.
I think I may have a little smiting of my own coming.
Almost a year ago, Res decides that she's too good for consulting, or really any silly desk job for which she has trained and slaved and filled out circles with number 2 pencils. Not for her, the dull life of time sheets and black trouser suits and morning commutes with sweaty unknowns. Not for her, the anonymity of millions and the banality of monthly paychecks.
No, for she has talent. A special gift. She has been touched by the gods. She can use a keyboard and string sentences together with only the occasional grammatical error.
And so, she will Write A Novel. She will be Awarded The Pulitzer. She will be A Brilliant Author and hordes of readers will Bow Before Her Greatness.
Let's count the number of people actually talented enough to write a novel, shall we?
That didn't take long.
And it appears I am not one of them - turns out statistical improbabilities are just that. Improbable.
So let the deadly deluge and plagues of locusts begin. I'll get my umbrella.