When Faced with a Choice of Cobbler

Remember: they’ll know if you choose the blueberry.

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There is now a picture of my tongue on the internet, but it’s altogether relevant and appropriate, because it will help you to picture this:

Last night I handed out gift bags at the close of a dinner packed with luminaries.  I did so with blue teeth and a black tongue, stained from the blueberry cobbler offered for dessert.  I tried not to smile and give myself away, but it was difficult when every other person grinned blue and Wonka flashbacks abounded.

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At home, while sleepily attempting to plug in my new white noise machine, I accidentally pulled down the curtains stretching across my loft.  I sat back on my bed for a wry “Why do these things always happen to me?” moment, and then a petulant “If I could go back in time, forget the dinosaurs and the American Revolution and The Beatles at Shea.  I just want my curtains back” moment.  Then I plugged in my new white noise machine, turned my back to the windows which would brighten with sun in a few hours, and went to sleep.

When faced with a choice of cobbler, choose the peach.

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