Eight days since my last post.
Fever. Chills. Taking self far too seriously: delirium. Supplies low. Morale slipping. A miracle: my life-saving location device bings. It’s Daisy. Wasn’t she going to the mountains?
Daisy: I am going to die.
Jane: Inconvenient. I need more Kleenex. Why?
Daisy: Google Donner party
Jane: We are going to die b/c of cold white stuff?
Daisy: We will hv to bake each others limbs. Oh wait. No power.
Jane: That’s ok. Cut into chunks, put on stick. Flesh-cicles!
Before she can respond, I add:
Jane: pack Koolaide, sprinkle, instant fruit flavor!
Daisy: only Vodka left. And, um, EW. You sound better?
Jane: Oh I’m probably still going to die, no ETA anymore
I’ve written reams of stories. Be grateful none of them were put up here. You’d be hot-footing it to the mountains with your sticks and paper packets of titanium dioxide-laced artificial flavoring.
Okay, I just caught myself about to post a Jane-A-Phrased poem.
Original by Robert Frost, and…not about mud.
I’ll back away from the keyboard…