No dangerous fireworks at our house, this year. But we did hear-tell that the Goth kids are going to be lighting Roman candles and pointing them at one another on the playground of the elementary school nearby. Perhaps we can wizen ourselves in the watching?
I wants me some of that.
It’s . . . wizened.
India, I was thinking . . . slightly charred and more than a bit shrivelly myself.
Like it’s seen better days — and was playing dangerous games with fireworks back then.
C’mon girls. We’ve all seen ‘em like that and we love them anyway.
With brown mustard, I mean.
Oh, girls! It was good. The best one I think I’ve ever had. The wrinkled, toasty skin. The best.
No dangerous fireworks at our house, this year. But we did hear-tell that the Goth kids are going to be lighting Roman candles and pointing them at one another on the playground of the elementary school nearby. Perhaps we can wizen ourselves in the watching?
I was just describing. Not judging.
Wizened is precisely the word. But I see a lake in the background.