The trouble is...the trouble is that not all rectangles are squares.
I have a decidedly unpleasant habit of turning anything resembling a molehill into a mountain of card houses, and because I've had all this unmotivated free time lately everything that might invoke dwelling has had food shoved at it. That way when my brain makes attention-grabbing jabs at my soft bits and starts with the, "Hey, why isn't..." I can just tell it, "No, no time for that now. Making cookies, you see. And then this casserole and some muffins. And...pasta! That, there, that you want to think about will just have to be thought about at some other time."
Having a great time, though. Flour-smudges-on-the-nose-and-solo-underpants-dancing kind of fun.
Meanwhile, I'm thinking to myself, "Self, why not change your name to Lorraine? Why not wear your hair in pincurls and learn hypnosis and go on the road with a three-legged dog?" And self answers back, "Sugar, why not just calm your shit down and breathe?"
And what I really want to know is this: if one is playing Trivial Pursuit with someone famous, does that person get a pie if the answer is themselves?
Late tonight, all cooked out and completely derailed by a lingering trace of unexpected vanilla, quiet and pecking softly back at myself on the little blue typewriter. Smiling.
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