It is EASTER. And I am wearing a pink tank top. I had some Peeps for lunch. I ate them on Boulder's sofa while he and I whined into our open computers working on screenplays. There are worse problems to have. I eat the ears down. He does single bites, and his cheeks poof out like airbags.
Two nights ago, Bisque and I had a "Rags to Riches" date. (Term coined by him), which means we dressed up up--he in a button down, and me in the dress I wore to marry my best friend--and went to Taco Bell. Cool Ranch Doritos Locos Tacos: B+. But the night ended at da fanciest steak house for ridiculously good strawberry shortcake. And that IS a Good Friday, I think.
A million X's. A million O's. Shout out to our Lord and Savior: the candy and taco franchises of da USA.
You found yourself a prophet, but you left him on the boardwalk.
Another chocolate Easter bunny, hollowed out by your talk.