The Beach Boys Fire Element keeps ending off my night in orgasm. Is this the blessing for my child’s transition out of doghood? It’s not a vegetable, it is flame bodied, burning down the studio of my easy peasiness.

Doesn’t anybody want any of my coleslaw, asks Musette, pointing at the big ol’ bowl of it with her fork.

And try these grits, Sam, says I’Lill.

Me, I ask.

Yes, Of course. You with the perfect haircut, the kind Andrew with his thin hair can’t pull off. The stuff of models. You being all full of a sort of confidence emanating up and through you, golden into form, enabling you to eat all of your meal while none of the rest of us can get ours all the way down.

And pie, I ask.

Nobody’s up for it.

Coffee?

Neither that either.

Gonna go home and vegetate, says Andrew, not being so much like the fire I have myself burning in my belly tendral tied to my dog, The Omen.

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