Pistachios and Cream Sherry

For a woman of my age (43 years), I should be more than a hastily sketched figure. My character should be in bolder print than in unsure smudges of charcoal across newsprint. When submerged in my family, the delineations of Chloe Stowe should not dissolve and disappear entirely.

But they do.

You would think such an odd character as myself would stand out boldly (though annoyingly) in a crowd of normal… like a pistachio nut in a bowl of mashed potatoes.

But my pistachio-ness simply evaporates, leaving little but a misshapen shell of what was…

Well, now, that sounds a bit more morose than I’d planned. It is hardly as sad as all that, I assure you. 

But it is worth taking note, I believe.

So take note, world. There is a proud pistachio among you. Though I may not be seen nor tasted, I am determined to be remembered…

Ok, that’s even more angst-ridden. I think I’ll stop there before I drive us all to the cream sherry.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe