I’m thoroughly convinced this woman is after me.  She keeps turning up everywhere I go.  The first thing she always says to me, staring at me in that cold, hard way she has, is “Pluto is a planet.”  Then she just waits, like she expects me to give her some big philosophical response or something.  Now, I’m going to get away—far, far from here.  This lady is driving me nuts.  I was going through the Yellow Pages earlier today.  I already quit my job at the factory.  They couldn’t understand why, but I made up some story about moving in with my fiancée’s family in Pittsburgh.  I was looking for “relocating services” but all I found was relocation software, whatever that is.  The next entry is “rental services.”  Maybe I should call one of those, and rent a monthly bodyguard in case this woman attacks me.  I haven’t described her to the cops yet; I don’t want to get the police involved.  They probably won’t believe me anyway and will tell me I need to fill out reports and papers, all that.  I suppose I should just get on a Greyhound bus and go somewhere—anywhere—but I still don’t know what to do or where to go.  Besides, I’ve been helping my brother with his farm so he can avoid foreclosure.  If I go across the country he’ll never forgive me.  But I know as sure as I’m sitting here that she’ll be at Kelly’s later.  She will plant herself right down on the stool next to mine, and everybody will laugh, and she will say to me, “Pluto is a planet!”  Then she’ll bear down on me with those weird eyes of hers.  You know, sometimes I wish I’d never been born