Not that I have any concrete proof, or, for that matter, any reason whatsoever to believe anything other than the normal boring evening is in store for me, but...
I feel like the swim and tennis center that normally houses the HOA meeting I am hired to cover may be my slaughterhouse tonight.
In fact, I am so neurotic that I already have an entire scenario played out in my warped mind where the normal glares they cast at me are followed by accusations and an ugly confrontation. One demands that I answer impossible allegations. Another demands a retraction and my resignation. Yet another throws me out and calls for a tar and feathering. One makes a motion for a restraining order against me keeping me from a 10 mile radius of the community limits. They put my caricature up on the telephone poles and alert the authorities of my license plate number. (Someone even throws a mythical bottle of water that is only half-filled with the label peeled off, and shouts, I knew Bob Woodward! Bob Woodward was a good friend of mine! And you, sir, are no Bob Woodward! )
Paranoid hormones, perhaps. Or maybe I am just taking this way too seriously.