The muse does not like broccoli.
The furry, four-legged highness when attacked by a floret will squish
it around in her mouth, spit it out, squish, spit, squish, spit… you get the
picture. The slobbery, barely recognizable remains are then tossed in the trash.
Food, time and dog saliva wasted.
The point?
I broccoli-ed a paragraph yesterday.
Enough said.
Until tomorrow…
Chloe
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