On the Return of the Muffin Blossoms

Anxiety is the worst. Saturday is supposed to be the only day I really have off from doing stuff, and I try my best to keep it that way. On those occasions, though, where this day is genuinely without event or obligation, I find myself consumed with fretting about absolutely anything and everything that could possibly ever be fretted over or dwelt upon. When this happens, it completely wrecks the weekend. I am not offering a miraculous metaphysical formula by which one may quickly overcome these types of phenomena. No, this is not about that. This is more about letting off steam. That’s just where I’m at right now. I do not have a magic answer to share with you because my methods and solutions, however marvelous, are often stifled by the sheer obstinacy of my own unwillingness to exercise them, or my own inability to muster the faith necessary to make them effective. Instead, today I am going to talk to you fully about muffin blossoms.

The advent of muffin blossoms dawned upon the world back before time unknown had ever been calculated or made to sit briskly upon the edge of a rasin. I have no way of knowing this other than that innate, mildly platonic corroberative insignia which dances upon the surface of the water each morning, and sinks below the flawless blankets of nighttime, when once those arrangements have confabulated.

Kitten fingers.

“Why, Gandalf!” Eleanor exclaimed (her eyes bright with applesauce.) “You’ve got broad, mild strokes of Chinese whisker biscuits basically falling out of your nightgown! Heavens!”

Food seemed to be the predominant theme. But why? What possibility of reprieve, what fabulous deus ex machina of wild renown could possibly come of such tomfoolery? Mark Twain once said that chickens run better under clothing farmers when eagles dress down for Saint Patrick’s day, but that was before Jesus was a baby.

I don’t like being reclusive about it, but someone needs to fortify these racecar spiders. Mars won’t believe anything less than a federal coconut. You can’t move left, you can’t move right, and all that remains, all that even pretends to remain, is laughing. Slithering around and laughing. How much more of this do you need to see before you underestimate graphite? How much longer can you use Lysol? How many more children need to consume predicated flowers, and red, ripe computer speakers, until Hell breaks forth and truly dissociates the actual memories of how to do things that really need to be done? Like button topsoil? Or coagulate napalm?

Appreciation is key. We cannot understate its importance. Without gratitude, our macaroni would not stand up in the frying pan. Food again! Unacceptable. The whole damn thing was unacceptable, and with that he gave away the final dollar signs of laser-powered car horns. They never go off when they’re supposed to. And all this for a pair of muffin blossoms.

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