PB's Plea

Oh my dear, dear sweet-toothers. Though peanut butter and chocolate may be brothers from another manufacturer, please recall that they remain of the same family of delectableness. There is no intended malice or attempted conversion here. It’s just that peanut butter, the overshadowed substance—caused by chocolate’s fantastic charisma and charm—has only hoped for a taste of time in the sun. It would even accept a 60-40 timeshare. Please. Why would chocolate feel so threatened by his more trans fatty-prone pal?

In the Shaft but Not

While in the coal mines, I often stare at Torin snaps—mostly those in which he was near to Decker’s present age (6 months).

Oddly, this has only been a recent urge to reflect—and which has consequently caused significant personal consternation—for the images lure me, transforming myself into a glaze-eyed, woolgatherer. This is unfitting for my present situation (as is undoubtedly crafting this entry); I ought to be absolutely productive while in the mine. It's doubly problematic because these memory escapades also render me somewhat emotional, nearly tearful.

Pooks was so recently at little Goo-Goos’ present condition—a tranquil toddler rather than a torrent of tantrums. These babies must have bamboo juice for blood; even Jack would be taken back. My feelings thus present a strange dichotomy. On one hand, I yearn to return to those warm days, and on the other, I would not exchange the present for any price. All considered, I exist in a remarkable circumstance. To wit, I possess a brilliant diamond and two unique gold nuggets, one having a darker surface than the other.

In fact, the present has proven to be as profitable as the past and has presented delightful presents, particularly when all I have ever expected to mine was coal.