Thunder cake

I just knowingly put tomato juice in a dessert. That's what the recipe called for and I did it. Very skeptical. It'll probably end up tasting like a mix between a bloody mary and a hot chocolate. Oh well, I could definitely think of worse things.
Like feeling like such a misanthrope you actually apply to a job in a place called Hungry Horse, Montana and you actually hope you get it so you can get the f*** out of the town you've been living in too long.
You know what too long is, don't you?
Too long is when you don't cry at funerals, no matter how old the deceased is. Too long is when you hate going to the grocery store because you know, just know, that you will run into someone who will want to talk to you for several hours about themselves. Too long is when you look at your woodpile for the 25th consecutive year and feel absolutely no joy in stacking at. In fact, all you want to do is either piss on it like a dog or crawl into bed and weep for lack of something more creative to do.
So, yeah, too long. I am still under the grand illusion that a change of scenery will somehow do me good, ha! I know, I know, it's a facade, but I still wonder, naively so, if that will, in fact, do us all good. Can't have red-rimmed eyes for too long or people will start to talk. As if they wouldn't anyway!
Thank god for the children, or at least parts of them. Last night, after Anna got reamed out for pushing her brother she and I had a little chat while I inspected her hair for the 900th time to make sure there were no "nits" or traces of nits.
"You really should go say goodnight to your father." I coaxed.
"Why, so he can build me back up again after yelling at me? I don't think so."
Kid is friggin' smart. I was almost speechless, the nit comb suspended in air.
"Yeah, basically, that's exactly why."
"I guess I'll say goodnight."
I'm telling you, you cannot pay for entertainment like that.
The thunder cake smells done (or burned), I'll let you know how it turned out.