Step 1: Goto your local starbucks
Step 2: Order a Grande' Caramel Apple Cider with the following amendment, substitute 1 pump of the chai for 1 pump of the cinnamon.
tall= 2pump cin/1pump chai
grande= 3 pump cin/ 1 pump chai
venti=4 pump cin/1 1/2 pump chai
Step 3: Enjoy!!!
PS It tastes somewhat similar to the old fashioned mulling spiced cider drink.
Sunday, November 23, 2014
Saturday, November 22, 2014
Love
Love is a great word. To boast about, To write about. To bitch about. To make uneasy statements of belief or unbelief in.
To one it is magical and involves serendipitous moments, whimsy, and fate.
To another it involves chemicals, biology, and programming.
Love is at the same time a kind mistress and a bitch.
She is a roofie for your mind, heroine for your body, and she never stays.
Love is an unfaithful whore promising a lifetime as her feet take her wherever her frivolous and untamed desires lead.
Yet she is all powerful. She will kick you in the teeth and leave you wanting more.
She will take your dignity, and, once restored, steal your manhood over and over again.
She is the darkest of loveliest things.
She makes great boasts through the tongues of men she holds
We write all of our songs about her. Compose great stories exalting her but I have discovered her secret.
She is not real. She is a fake She is not love at all. She is selfish, narcissistic, and self absorbed. She is a dark and empty hole that can never be filled. A thirst that can never be quenched.
Real love abides. Real love conquers. Real love sees the good in others. Real love is thoughtful. Real love knows the value in sacrifice. Real love is rare.
She cannot be found in a poem, or a movie, or a song.
She is found in the house where wisdom lives. She whispers in your ear when you are tempted to walk away. She lives with humility. Her light shines brightest in the faces she touches.
To one it is magical and involves serendipitous moments, whimsy, and fate.
To another it involves chemicals, biology, and programming.
Love is at the same time a kind mistress and a bitch.
She is a roofie for your mind, heroine for your body, and she never stays.
Love is an unfaithful whore promising a lifetime as her feet take her wherever her frivolous and untamed desires lead.
Yet she is all powerful. She will kick you in the teeth and leave you wanting more.
She will take your dignity, and, once restored, steal your manhood over and over again.
She is the darkest of loveliest things.
She makes great boasts through the tongues of men she holds
We write all of our songs about her. Compose great stories exalting her but I have discovered her secret.
She is not real. She is a fake She is not love at all. She is selfish, narcissistic, and self absorbed. She is a dark and empty hole that can never be filled. A thirst that can never be quenched.
Real love abides. Real love conquers. Real love sees the good in others. Real love is thoughtful. Real love knows the value in sacrifice. Real love is rare.
She cannot be found in a poem, or a movie, or a song.
She is found in the house where wisdom lives. She whispers in your ear when you are tempted to walk away. She lives with humility. Her light shines brightest in the faces she touches.
Saturday, November 15, 2014
Moving On. . .
One day it all started. Then, as with all things, it ended. The beginning was full of joy and love and sex and innocence. A zeal for life. A new beginning. Life was a waltz moving, moving. Spinning, spinning. Dizzy days and not caring for much. Throwing caution to the wind.
Then the day grew long. The spinning slowed and eventually stopped. I wept and was not sorry. There was no solace in the ear of a friend or the aroma of a cigar or a loud party or an evening alone.
And now there is waiting.
Waiting for a new song. Different arms. The awkward moments. First smiles. New lips on mine.
And then we will take our walks. Sip our coffee in the morning that is much too early. Experiencing newness in the mundane. Traveling to new places and even seeing old things as if for the first time.
I used to be a cynic. Dry. Protected. Indifferent.
But then I was broken and the innocence and the vulnerable spilled out.
For a season stuck, but now out. . . and moving on.
Then the day grew long. The spinning slowed and eventually stopped. I wept and was not sorry. There was no solace in the ear of a friend or the aroma of a cigar or a loud party or an evening alone.
And now there is waiting.
Waiting for a new song. Different arms. The awkward moments. First smiles. New lips on mine.
And then we will take our walks. Sip our coffee in the morning that is much too early. Experiencing newness in the mundane. Traveling to new places and even seeing old things as if for the first time.
I used to be a cynic. Dry. Protected. Indifferent.
But then I was broken and the innocence and the vulnerable spilled out.
For a season stuck, but now out. . . and moving on.
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