I am not so much motivated to write as I am unable not to do so.

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I remember being in a car seat on the floor of the living room. I remember red, yellow, and green plaid pants and thinking, oh, this must be the early seventies.
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Dear 100-Year-Old Me:

You will probably be the only one at our high school reunion, which means you're going to win all the awards. Go you. Me. Us. Whatever.

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Seneca, the first frozen apple juice enriched with vitamin C, or so the jingle stated. I still drink apple juice when I'm looking for that comfort-food feeling.

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The Plinky prompt today was to review a past meal as if it had been a film.

Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt, spilled food on it.

Instead, here is a link to one of the times I reviewed food.

http://golfwidow.net/2010/08/07/soooop-of-the-eeevening-rally-edition/

I'm not sure what I'm going to be thinking on my deathbed, but I do hope I'll remember to have my last words be, "This is the sort of thing that causes gay men to go straight."


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Grrr.


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I usually watch this video. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rNnt-aVYo4s

If that doesn't work, I'm probably dead.

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If I were writing a scary story about the sea, Voldemort would be at the bottom of the deep end, surrounded by spiders and casting the Expecto Pea-tronum spell on me, thus forcing me to eat an entire bowl of mushy peas.

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