There was neither foreboding thunder nor cold rushes of wind to warn us of such impending doom. (Or maybe I  was just too preoccupied to drop a pint of care in the bucket of weather assessment.) Hey! Cut me some slack. Not everyone has Karen Smith’s psychic breasts. 

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Let’s live momentarily on the irony of things and dance our troubles away clad in everything gold and shimmery. An instinctual ode to pursue the ethereal and spark-worthy moments in our lives despite everything that contradicts such.

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