For the love of purple berries

wine glass not included

I spied a bowl full of phalse when I opened the heavy doors of the refrigerator, looking for a bottle of h20.

Enticed by the crunchy centers and the tangy soft exterior of those purple berries I reached out and grabbed a fistfull to saté my midnight p90x fueled hunger.

Alas, given my sleep riddled constitution and the lack of room for a fist, I knocked the bowl, full of the goodness of phalse, off its hallowed perch in the cold confines off the refrigerator and watched in silent horror as the little berries made a spectacle and spread themselves all over the kitchen and the hall floor.

I then did what any phalse lover, worth his salt, would do.

I said “fuck it, the maid will clean this up in the morning” and went off to sleep.

True story.


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