Great Balls Of Fire

I sift through stories of the day like squinting at a crystal ball; Which to tell, why, and what is their value?

I impulsively bought a 4-lb tub of Atomic Fireballs for the office a couple of days ago. Lining the base of my monstera plant are seven of the plastic-covered mini red planet-looking candies, all equally spaced and ready to be grabbed.

One out of three clients took one today. A fun conversation starter for sure, “I like cinnamon the spice, but cinnamon candy, no.” Pressing them, I said, “Does that mean hot tamales too?” “It does.”

Another sucked and, in mid-sentence, gave a head tilt and grimace as the spice took center stage.

But seriously, how can someone not like hot tamales?

It’s 4:21 pm, and I have an hour break. A long breath of air to lock in progress notes for insurance purposes, water my plants before the weekend, and to write.

Things are about to heat up; I popped a ball in my mouth. Google let me know the fireball hits as hard as a jalapeno on the Scoville scale at 3,500; I wouldn’t have guessed that.

I’m stuck on what to do with the duck’s area. The rooster is cooped up all alone there due to his obscene crowing hours and pecking at people, but I don’t want him to be lonely.

Do I buy more chickens? I don’t like chickens. Do I buy more ducks? If so, I need to get rid of the rooster.

Ahhhhh! I need a therapist.

Nah. I need Dave’s sanity and hand-holding on this topic. So I did, and I think I go for more ducks.

So it’s time to gift the rooster. Free chicken anyone?

Love, Jaclynn

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