It was more rot than ripen. Or perhaps rot then ripen.
What? No, not our future. I mean, I love you dear reader, like a rhetorical device, you mean a quantifiable amount to me. 638 more words
Hey, my hard-drive crashed, have a little leniency. I know, dear reader, to be without Jack is a torment, the withdrawals from ever erratic prose is unendurable, the missing maunderings gnaw at your very soul, you can’t just smoke that Jacky Tobacy and all will be well, no no, you need me with a working computer, which is thankfully what I have again. 1,262 more words
Hey, that title might be boring, but it’s better than: You Can’t Eat A Bed-pan, right? Now, before I begin, I already have? Oh, well, anyway, this isn’t a strict guide, it’s more of a recap of what I did that worked when I was in for my abdominoplasty. 1,558 more words
I will one day learn to take better late-night photos.
I’m a terrible food blogger at times, dear reader, I know that. I often run my own recipes down, because, well, they’re good enough to eat and consistent to make, but sometimes they’re just not that great and I couldn’t claim anything about them that isn’t the truth. 813 more words