Of Sunny Days and Peanut Allergies

Are you aware that March 4th is the only day of the year that gives you a command?

Think about it.

But I digress, quite aware that we're further into March than the aforementioned date.  Missouri is breaking free from Winter and just a few days ago it was warm enough to comfortably wear shorts and a tanktop.  I was out of my uniform only minutes after the last bell of the school day and dancing around outside barefoot with a few good friends, completely ecstatic at the wonderful weather.  For the rest of the evening a friend and I drove around town with the windows down, playing dance music obnoxiously loud.  It was a breath of fresh air, like we were finally free to do more than sit inside all day and wait for the snow to go away.  I hate Winters in the Midwest, they always last too long in my opinion and they make me feel trapped. In a way, when the weather warms up so do my moods.  It's funny how cold, gray days can make a dreary and antisocial person out of me.

So, with all of the lovely occurances this week has brought I guess you could reason that life has been fairly good to me.

Wrong.

Tragedy scraped its black hands across my life last night.  It brought me to the realization that

I...

Am allergic to Nutella......

Curse thee peanut allergies!  Curse thee!

I almost cried when I saw rashes on my arms. 

Suppose it's time I find another spread to obssess over.

Liminality (Two)

Another snippet from my developing story.  Enjoy, and no sticky fingers or I'll send my hounds after you.

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  "Good morning."  Fingers of light crept behind his closed eyelids, prying them open to reveal a blurry face peering back into his, an overenthusiastic smile plastered on it cheaply.  Dark brown eyes stared at him curiously, a hand tightly gripping his shoulder to cause the discomfort that had wakened him.  He pulled his head up from the ground slowly.  The tangy taste of salt permeated his mouth and sand gripped onto his face and hair, grating against his teeth as he worked his jaw.  "At least, I think it's morning."  The silhouette's voice was masculine and simple, the tone you would hear in daily conversations, but it was still foreign to the drowsy boy.  The hand moved from his shoulder to brush the sandy bangs from his forehead, fingers frigid against his already cold skin.  When he opened his mouth to protest the touch only air slipped past his lips, as if his vocal cords had been burnt away. 

  Water, breathing water, was lapping at his feet, dragging its way across his legs and lower torso.  The gray light that had opened his eyes was streaming out from behind a thick layer of dark storm clouds that shed their liquid burden across the desolate beach.  The touch against his forehead dissipated and he relaxed into the ground, hand curling around the sand to mold a handful of the substance beneath his raw fingers.  The drowsy boy closed his eyelids.