Edit: Not to sound like a broken record, dear friends, but if the cards and letters in my inbox are any indication, there still seems to be some confusion as to the authorship of the post below. No, I haven't discovered a newfound sense of peace and whimsy, nor have my photography skills improved a thousandfold. What follows comes from the pen and shutter of the beauteous McBeth, who would be on quadruple probation for jacking my blog without giving me so much as a warning, only she's just so damn funny and sweet...
Mon DIEU et voila, who will believe that I am inviting my dear readership into the luxurious bounty of my two beautiful (but natural. nature versus neuter. nothin' nefariously manufactured here, more along if you're all for super or subnatural, that's a different state altogether and none of the 50 really wants to discuss it publicly) scoops? No one, that's who. But hells bells, that has never prevented me from opening up and offering out ...
Take. Munch. This is my pinecone which is given for you. Take. Lick. This is my berry drop goodness shed for you. For as often as we lay these bricks criss-crossedly or fotografically find foods in nature, you do this for the rememberance of me.
Lloyderina may have a thing or two to say (or not, it may be as insignificant as the barely visible shift of an eyebrow hair) about my two luscious and oh-so-lickable scoops. In the rock stars sans guitar category, Lloyderina stands alone due to his general cool hang-out-ability. But like I say, he's not afraid to go lookin for the tall grown-up glasses we only take down when company comes visiting so he can pour me another round of ShutTheHellUp when we both need a long drink. What can I say, some phraseology just sticks with a person.
Hmm, what else might this recipe need? Oo! I know! A dash of heaviness. That's what I need to finish this off, yes! I cannot send my lovely readers away lusting after my conages, c'est ne pas bonbon dee bon. Bring it around, sister, you can DO this! Loads of ennui dappled with ash sprinkles. We could all ponder our growth processes together (please make no mistake though, I don't want to have to think about your growth. I've got a constant battle on my hands managing my own. Send me your Cliff Notes, I'll browse it later and can then tell you if you're onto something. Hold hands with your neighbor now, this could get rocky ...
Kuhmmmmmm byyyyeeee aahhhhhhhhhhh mahhhhLorrrrrrrd
Kuhmmmmmm byyyyeeee aahhhhhhhhhhh
How silly of me to ever doubt my own beauty.
That's what I really just need to say. I have a process - my process - my peculiar process (pat.pend.) but eventually, when I'm done following my peculiar process (pat.pend.) I come back to what I know is true. Shaddap. I DO!
I'm not a frump.
I've never been a frump.
I sometimes wear the frump's costume, just so I can be sure to understand her perspective should I ever feel the need to defend her against rooty-tooty fresh n'fruity know-it-alls who think they do while the rest of us giggle at the holyFUCKisn'titobvious fact that they SO don't.
But I am absolutely and most definitely not a frump.
Stick that in your cone and lick it, sweethearts.