It’s official. I’m turning into one of those porch hag old bitter ladies. You know the type, sitting in their rocker, looking out over their tiny front yard and angrily shaking their fist at the youngsters passing by al raucously, skirting too close to her gardenias.
Now, with my talent for killing flowers I obviously won’t have gardenias, but I’m starting to really get the hang of the excessively angry bitterness for no apparent reason. I should get to work on a quilt to put over my old rickety legs. But I can’t sow either. Dammit.
Him: ‘Hey Z.!’
Right there. Right then. Instantly done. Two words. Or well. One word or a letter was all it took for him to instantly get discarded to the bin of ‘nopes!’
I mean, I gettit. I really do. We all stem from the era of Madonna being shortened…
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