Perhaps she regrets leaving her bathing suit in the beach bag she forgot by the door
Your autobiography will read like an off-brand book of Mad Libs.
Sprinting to life’s finish line
You cannot chop despair into a nice fruit salad.
Make haste, make waves, or at least a cloud of ink.
Two is a coincidence, three is a pattern… three wishes… celebrity deaths come in threes or two-thousand-sixteens…
Uh, hi, tarot blogger lady? It’s Colin. One of the ghosts? We didn’t interrupt your last post! That voice in …
beware. beware! fear the coming darkness.
You have many stories to tell. No one listens anymore.
To avoid ultimate defeat, wise Tarot readers will insist that you do something monumentally stupid upon pulling a seven.
Chamaeleonids are especially tickled pink by the opportunity.
What? No! Wrong way! We’ll be run over by massive fifteenth century carts with lift kits and fake nuts tied to the back!
In the Sola Busca version, (featured above) the carver is finished. Finished, as in pecked clean by the crows, one of which still lurks on a branch above.
(a post that is short and unsweet)
The Knight of Coins waits for orders, and waits some more, then continues to wait, followed by a great deal of waiting, culminating in a good long wait.
“Then you shall pounce on all the mice,” said the Pig, “and I shall build a mouse-proof fence around this farm to keep the rest out!”
He also promised to lock the well-meaning Little Red Hen into a chicken coop for good.
Hibernation. Ensure that you visit the lavatory before you sleep, lest you need to (god forbid) leave your bed in the middle of February.
“THIS is my stick,” she/he/they/ze says. “Mine. It is the very best stick.”
“the Octopus is a secret symbol for the head of a conspiracy linking the Masons, the Mafia, the Illuminati, the CIA, the Templars, the Joneses…
th’ Flyin’ Spaghetti Monster, who boiled fer yer sins ‘n fills yer belly when ye be famish’d.