So, the other day (don’t they tell you in writing courses to not start sentences with So, But, and the ever popular And….?? They do? Oh. Well, i bet they don’t really accept “um” in a text either. So, yanno….Bite me!), anyway as i was saying before i so rudely interrupted myself, i was making dinner. Was i saying that? um. No. But i was gonna.
Let’s try this again. *sounds of throat clearing*.
wait. wait….(can you tell i’ve been up since 320 a.m.? You can. Oh.)
i’m not *talking* duh.
*sounds of fingers being stretched* (doesn’t that cracking noise just gack you right out? Yeah, that’s why i stopped before it got to that point.
That’s me, your ever-considerate nilla.
So, the other day, i was making dinner for the family, and coz it’s freaking cold–it’s finally mashed potato weather! i’m really zenning out while peeling these, though i begin to note that this bag of taters is oddly shaped. Not the bag, mind you, but the taters themselves. I have no idea where or how they were raised but i’ll just go on record as saying that Maine potatoes aren’t shaped this way.
i get to the verrah last one, the others all peeled and eighthed and bubbling in the pot.
i begin to be a bit more mindful. This potato has a shape. A definite shape of a woman. A goddess shape (don’t believe me? google “early man goddess images” and you will find this pic:
now, take a look at my potato:
Well, of *course* i looked. This is a sex blog you know.
My little potato goddess, pussy, ass, butthole, belly button, but woefully, titless.
There, you *knew* this was going somewhere, didn’t you? Happy HNT!