tiger's blood.

i'm freezing!
duders,
i'm too flippin' skinny to be chugging down frozen virgin drinkies
on days when the temperature isn't a sweltering sheet of heat.
that's no joke.
putting a few back, with their tropical icy essences,
has gotten me reduced to a shivering quivering numb-fingered mess.
yuuuuuuuuuup.
what else could i do, though, yo?
i mean,
i couldn't resist the siren-song of the strawberries i'd intended to use
as tart toppings, sliced, sweetened, and marinated in agave nectar.
however,
since baking wasn't on the schedule,
i changed the tune of those alluring redheads-
uh-huh,
i pureed those mutha-!tches and poured 'em into cups.
that single-note of seedy sweet treats seemed unsatisfyingly simple,
and therefore way too non-expert.
huh?
yeah-
you ninjas know i can't abide that waterbabyish weak-sauce.
not now, and not ever.
so,
i added a second tier of hawaii-type activation.
neighbors-
coconut syrup, coconut milk, key lime juice, and crushed ice?
teleport:

that's that vegan tiger's blood-style flavored-up fresh sh!t.
and it's also turbo-elite and ultra delicious.
drinkies, y'all.
i even garnish 'em with that sexy-time sprigs-and-sprouts business.
i'm super-fancy, after all...
a big fat-b!tch batch of good it does for me, not exactly.
but i'm still on it for the eyecandy voyeur peeps it provides for you guys.
awwwwwwwwwww, man.
regardless of the theoretical benefits of boozeless beverages,
i still doubled-down on a pair of those thick and creamy coconutty milkshakes,
and now i'm feeling icy.
y'know-gelid.
like, it's really frosty.
what i mean is, i'm really F*ing cold.
and basically,
since there's no sun shining down to warm me up,
it's gonna be a unkind battle-beast of a day in the woodsly goodness.
we generate heat from our own stoves, on the inside.
mines just gonna take a little longer to reach the proper amount of hottness.
and that's a good thing, guys-
because a cold-start means extra staving and stoking and stirring,
and more action is always better, right?
agitating, instigating, catalyzing, and forcing the friction for a chafing,
strafing sortie into the scenes i'm starring in?
c'mon.
overacting is the only way to go.
luckily,
there wasn't ever even any other choice.
real talk.
blowhard berserker ballyhooing?
today is the day.
a slow boil is still possible when you're watching the pot.
and i'm a cast-iron cauldron of caustic chatter,
and a vat of vicious, virtuous, victorious verity.
truth tellers can never stop.
that's a thing;
never quiet, never soft.....