My Cardboard Balcony

Pint of Awesome by Belinda Roddie I told her that she was a pint of awesome, all bottled and capped and chilled, ready to serve in a tall, frosted glass at a pub carved into Ireland's green liver. "You're a pint of awesome, too," she replied, trying to imply that I could be drunk as easily as her flavor. I shook my head. "Half-cup. We agreed that I was a half-cup." "No," she argued. "You're a pint." "A cup," I attempted to compromise, my hands pressed against her swollen bosom, the liquor of her flesh drawn out against my fingers, smooth and ready to pour into the voluptuous stein. "Two cups," she said, and I chuckled, kissing her twice on the nose. Two splashes of ale to appease her. "But my dear," I whispered, "two cups of awesome equals a pint." And she nodded and giggled, and I gave up the game and guzzled her love straight from the bar's brass, nozzle

There's only so much wondering you can do before forcing your ass off your chair and going for a walk. Because stewing isn't exactly appetizing and is more like, I don't know, "brothing" than anything else. Thoughts without movement is sort of like expecting a full cup of tea from a kettle of hot water - there's gotta be heat under your boots in order to get the blood of any good idea pumping. So that's what I did - I walked. I walked all the way to the next town, fifty miles away.