All the way to the end of the world you and me together. She said she always believed that.
This should be the history lesson of 1776, but I'm not so great at that.
He'll cook drunk chickens, and I'll say I don't think he needs to blame it on the chickens. I'll bring homemade ice cream and the dwindling foil of cake so moist and perfectly sweet that when offered it, he hears, "One bite. I told myself I wasn't going to share it with you. If you know how great it can really be then you'll know what it's supposed to taste like when I make it this weekend."
Today I am grateful for the inspiration of Arrington's cakes, the dancing chickens, laundry detergent, and that they made it through the hike. And an interview. And a writing I need to do.
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