One of my favorite writers -- and heck, speakers -- of all time is in the hospital with breast cancer. Sixty-two is far too young an age to be doing anything but raising hell, and I'm taking it personally that fate is peeing all over my hopes in that regard for Molly Ivins. Right now, at least. On the other hand, Ivins has raised enough hell in her sixty-two years for thousands of us, so maybe she's entitled to a bit of a rest for now.
Get better, Molly. Please.