You may be wondering why I’m posting a photoset of my most recent Instagram posts. Well, dear reader, I ask you to use your great intellect and determine what these six photos have in a common. Here’s a few hints… starts with a c, ends with an e, and it’s quite literally the solution to any problem.
If you guessed chocolate you, my friend, are completely correct.
MAPLE COCONUT OIL CHOCOLATES (vegan + gluten free)
Makes: 14 small chocolates (about the size of 1 ½ to 2 tbsp) Prep Time: 5 min Cook Time: 5 min + 30 min in the freezer
As for literary criticism in general: I have long felt that any reviewer who expresses rage and loathing for a novel or a play or a poem is preposterous. He or she is like a person who has put on full armor and attacked a hot fudge sundae or a banana split.
Kurt Vonnegut, Palm Sunday: An Autobiographical Collage
Equestria was silent. Utterly quiet. The only sounds that could be discerned were leaves, stirred by the gentle wind. Not one bird sang, not one cricket chirped. No owl hooted into the eerie night. Not one living creature dared even breathe.
That night, where no pony left their homes. That night, that eerie night. The night where no pony breathed, where no chests possessed the steady rhythm of rise and fall, that night where no pony lived. This is a story about that night.
HEY KIDS, IF YOU WANT YOUR CHARACTER TO APPEAR IN SUMMER OF MUSIC, JUST SAY SO, MAYBE I’LL PUT THEM IN, OR I’LL USE THEM WITHOUT PERMISSION LIKE I DID WITH SUNDAE but he’s a shameless whore so I don’t care about his permission..
She stands atop a bellbottom peak held together only by strings in a multitude of colors. Her arms, clad in rainbow wristbands and plump red mosquito bites, are nailed to a crucifix of thin air. She thinks, what is this sense of fervent rush in my bones?
She thinks, perhaps this is freedom.
Counting each yarn and thread with a slight twinge of her fingers, there are fifteen blues, sixty-four yellows, twenty-seven reds, and one that is an iridescent hue. The rest of the colors do not have a name. What she knew, though, was that the blues were for every time she had been sad, yellows happy, and reds for every person she had ever loved.
The last in the iridescent hue, the thickest in fact, was the one connecting her to her carcass of a home nine thousand miles away. She remembers her mama who used to make the grandest of banana split sundaes cheap ice cream could make on sweltering Saturday afternoons. She resolved that her mother made up at least thirteen of the yellow strings holding her. Her father, perhaps seven of the blues. But the reds were all for the boys who picked on her and the girls she kissed at summer camp and museum field trips.
I want to scream at the girl,
this is not freedom! You are only a meal of the earth!
But it is too late; as the strings slice into her flesh, the canyon finally devours her.— Strings by comu