Currently Listening Not Too Late By Norah Jones see related

...there was a girl.

Her name varied with the website - sometimes she was Pervinca, sometimes Elvellon, sometimes Tlepolemus, but mostly Vinca.

She loved chronicling her rather random and sometimes scarily bizarre thoughts in blog entries and posting them for all the world to see, or at least the web-viewing faction.

That all ended one day.

No one knew why.

There were rumors - rumors about "busy" and "TFY summer program" and "more gruelling dance class" and "less computer time" - but no one could give an exact account for her disappearance.

Then, one day...

...cue thunder and the image of a dramatic figure dressed in a flowing black cape whipping about in the wind set against a sky full of flashing lightning...

...she returned!

There was too much to say about what she'd done and where she'd been, so she didn't talk much online. However, life settled to its normal pace and became writable once more. In a manner of speaking.

Most notably, a tragedy occurred of late. We mourn the lives of dozens of small, innocent, ripe, delicious apples (from the usually wormy and unproductive tree residing in the author's backyard). These were torn from their gentle branches (branches so can be gentle!) and tossed brutally into buckets and from buckets into jumbo sized rubbermaid tubs. They were scrubbed raw in a sink, jostling together about in the frigid water. Then they were sent to the torture device, the APCS (Apple Peeler/Corer/Slicer), which was wielded skillfully by two grinning lads with sticky hands and crooked teeth. Once they were peeled, cored, and sliced, they were doused with various juices and dumped unceremoniously into a mixture of flour, sugar, and cinnamon. Without any care or consideration they were stirred viciously by a rather nasty girl with smudged glasses and even stickier fingers (moi), and then spooned haplessly into a Ziploc bag and thrown into a large white chest out in the garage where it was always winter, always winter and never Christmas.

(What the pie-filling-ified apples don't know is that Christmas will come to them--but I doubt they'll enjoy being cooked very much.)

As it is, I cannot stand the sight or taste of an apple. And there's still a rubbermaid tub-full to go through!

Bleah.

-Rambling Blur