“accidental orange juice”

There comes a time in every woman’s life when she wakes up, sees her wide ass in the wide-ass mirror through her tired-ass eyes, and wonders what the hell happened.

Well, maybe not every woman, but probably most women?

Okay, hopefully not just me.

The point is when life’s lemons start showing up as pound cake thighs drizzled in doughnut glaze and permanently pursed lips from the sour taste in the back of the throat, it’s gotta be time to change some shit up and make orange juice, right?

The brain says there are
no accidents for realsies.
Sound waves between ears.

I placed the dry twigs across the fireplace grate, trying to lay enough of a foundation to build the fire but arranged loosely enough to let oxygen through to feed the flames. I then added some paper to get the quick burn started.

———————–

Well, that’s incredibly boring.

———————–

Isn’t it Snoopy who is always trying to write this incredibly amazing introduction for his novel about the Red Baron when suddenly Woodstock flutters his way over and interrupts thus providing a bit of comic relief as well as a direction to hold interest for the reader?

Good God, I could use a Woodstock now.

———————–

The last of wood is disintegrating into red orbs, glowing amidst a pile of ashes.

There is a tiny blue flame struggling to stay lit.