One… Two…

 

I had every intention of being all better by now, but instead I keep waking up with fresh symptoms… and friends who work in health care are nodding and saying helpful things like, “Has the vomiting started yet?” so I’d like to make one last plea to all parents: please keep your children home at all times, preferably in plastic bubbles, so that they don’t go around wiping their noses on the rest of the world.  Until that day, I’ll just keep telling myself that whiskey fudge will totally work better than anything my stupid doctor gives me. 

 

Side note; I think I’ve finally sorted my whiskey fudge recipe.

 

Rory Gilmore "you go, girl"

Intoxicatingly delicious.

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(More) Scenes From A Shop

 

Picture me, ass in the air, head and shoulders buried deep in a display of cereal boxes.  Muttering, cursing, “Give it up, you bitch… ah-hah!  Got one!”  I pass a box of Count Chocula behind me, waving it impatiently and call out, “There’s another one coming!” and barely feel the box lifted from my fingers before I tuck back in, yanking and heaving, ignoring the papercuts and the awful things happening to my hair because by God I won’t be denied.  I emerge, triumphant, and hold the last box of cocoa-y goodness aloft, turning around to face… a woman I have never seen before in my entire life.

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