Food for Thought

Like gardening alphabet soup vegetables (spelling out my nourishmental needs), I rake through the spellings of my earth bound tally: hoe. Furrows of great concentration appear on my brow and I write that I suddenly jump to my feet, wave my arms around wildly, yell out, “I’m not going to do this anymore!” look defiantly at those around me, sit back down and sneer into my bowl of lunch (some kind of soup today) and continue writing off to the side, all without actually doing anything at all (except the writing bits), thus giving the vegetables of your head a garden to grown in. Superlative fodder.

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