It's almost Halloween, and the memetard lays ready for Internet suit-ed-ness. I am somehow less excited about the holiday than I used to be, but this is usual, this is understandable. Turning 34 - I always want to round it off to 35 - yet I cannot yet. Why am I so eager to just be 35 and be done with it. One is never done. Not until death. I am not eager for that.
What I am eager for is the pumpkin pie, the innards of our jack-o-lantards, pureed, spiced, poured in hand-pressed crust and baked. I can smell it in the oven and I am hungry. The pumpkin's carved met a grosser fate. They were two. They were carved with much enthusiasm about a week ago, then put on the porch as is traditional. Then it rained. For days. They filled with mold and bugs and leprous spots of white grizzed fuzz. Both were quickly dispatched to the trash. Ruined before Halloween, they didn't last to see the night.
|Nevada, as a lion|