“Look for me in the bee balm.”
The sheer ridiculousness of this statement cannot be overstated here.
I don’t do bees.
Have never done bees.
Purgatory for me would be nothing but bees.
So, for me to ever stand willingly in a stand of bee balm, untangling mutant grape vines from giant purple blooms (aka: bee nip) is the height of absurdity. Utter cuckoo insanity. Straitjacket fodder.
Yeah, well, one guess where I spent my day?
“Look for me in the bee balm,” I’ll cackle endlessly to myself as stern people with very long needles finally drag my nutter of a butt away.
Post-note: Needless to say, no writing was done today. Frankly, I’m surprised I’m still verbal.