My therapist says it might help to share this with readers. So here goes nothing: Saturday night, for one horrible moment, I looked into the eyes of Ann Coulter.
I'm not sure why she was roaming the streets of West Palm Beach around midnight, but it was a full moon.
I was walking back to my car, parked in the CityPlace garage. She had just stepped out of a car and was crossing South Rosemary Avenue, near the Bang & Olufsen store, with a male companion. She took a step onto the sidewalk. Our eyes met. I must have betrayed a flicker of recognition -- that face was familiar. But it took a moment to place it and by the time my jaw dropped in horror she had already cast her eyes furtively down and her high heels click away into the night.
If you like this story, consider signing up for our email newsletters.
SHOW ME HOW
I turned on my heel, but that gave me a view of Coulter's much, much too mini skirt -- a white, all-too-translucent number that belonged in the closet of a Playboy Playmate, not a mummified pundit. It's that image that haunts me to this moment. I managed to keep from vomiting, but that night I had the most ghoulish nightmares...
I can report that there's truth to the urban legend: The air that surrounds Ann Coulter is indeed 10 degrees cooler than the prevailing temperature. You can actually see your breath -- like in The Sixth Sense.