“Everything went pear~shaped,” he confesses.
Oh my, no wonder your food comes out in messes.
The sudden rain gusts down in slants,
My tresses go straight into ringlets.
My hair predicts humidity, precipitation, and barometric pressure better than any meteorologist.
I leave the house with it styled one way to return, from a walk, with a totally different look.
It is the Scotch-Irish of my bloodline.
Bearing more neanderthal DNA than the majority.
Whatever that may mean.
Squeak, the cat, goes exorcist onto the door’s screen,
Startling me by meeting mine eyes with hers at an unnatural, five foot level.
Paws splayed in strange ways.
Twenty minutes later, she is asleep in her bubble wrap insulated, amazon box.
What a joy to see that what I perceive as trash becomes a highly prized toy.