"Oh Jesus, it's blueberry syrupy goodness...everywhere..."

"...The blueberries...it's dark purple juices pooled as my fork cut into the pancakes. I tasted their blood, and it tasted...sweet."

I just made and ate a fucking big batch of blueberry pancakes and I'm starting to hate myself for it and I don't care.

It's a Sunday, and tomorrow's a Monday, and this is my passive aggressive way of "celebrating" it. Things have been stressful to the "I wish I was 12 again" levels of wanting to revert away from adult responsibilities.

And blueberry pancakes are just good, dammit.