chilly, chili, chile.

it's just the right temperature.
which is to say: marginal fractions above freezing.
and yet, until i can see my breath in the indoor airspace,
the heat stays OFF.
we keep it rough, rugged, and raw in the woodsly goodness.
as a result,
my fingers are like miniature pinkish flavor-ice pops.
i could almost wear some warm woolen mittens in the house.
almost.
however, socks and shod soles are a madated must-have.
i mean it,
we've got a really mutha-flippin' cold floor.
naturally,
my slippers are keeping my battle-damaged digits safe and sound.
(a fleece-filled cradle for crippled curlies is how it's done up here.)
....and if you happen upon a scorch-marked miniature hybrid jellyfish/elizabethan collar,
scoople it up in a tissue and call me;
i'm looking for my a-hole.
sometime during last night i seem to have blown it off my body.
like an outtake from 'backdraft', i assume.
it's possible that maybe two whole bulbs of garlic added in for extra hot fire,
in my already eleventh-level three-bean barbarian buttblasting spicy veggie chili
wasn't my very best idea ever.

texas pete AND sriracha? oh MAN!

it was delicious, but at a brutal, bass-boosted price.
talk about alchemical transmogrification, my ninjas.
i definitely activated some failsafe self-destruct balloon-knot popping powers.
i spit hot fire, indeed.
not surprisingly,
regardless of the northerly nuances of netherworldly temperatures outside,
it was damn warm in the bedroom last night.
somewhat surprisingly,
a fog horn sounded to help me navigate through the clouds i'd conjured.
ouch.
what's more,
the dog cooked herself to well-doneness like a clam-baked holland native,
in what amounted to a devasting double-boiled dutch oven.
that's a pretty hard style,
even for a dirty dog.
--------------------
it's friday.
that's supposed to be good news, yeah?
i've got a whole batch of not-much to look forward to at the shop.
spanning time at 'job' is not as good as spending time at work.

seems everybody else is saving up for the fair, too.

beat street cheapskates and broke-ass b!tches, yo.

those falafels aren't going to buy themselves y'know.

ah well,

48 hours left to languish in the losery lurch of lean times,

and then it's word to new england autumn harvest Folk Life hottness.

fair Fair fairy that i am,

all unabashed, unabated, and un-a-believable,

i am going to puke up a small mysterious serious syrian infant.

by the close of next week,

a phantom teentsy tahini/beany baby is bound to be bursting out of my bronchials.

somebody prep the foghorn;

never quiet, never soft.....