Or at least to my stomach, which is the next best thing I suppose.
Bob's Sweet Stripes.
290 pieces of soft mint happiness.
I've determined that today is Grand Opening Day for The End Times. Ragnarok. Abaddon. The Apocalypse. The Yearly JC Penny White Sale.
Last night and this morning it seemed that no matter where I turned, no matter WHAT I did, I was faced with sturm und drang. I felt like a wolf with his leg caught in a steel trap, locked inside a steel trap factory during their Bi-Annual Leave Fearsome Rusted Steel Traps, Armed, All Over The Floor Daze. It's been bad, kids. Bad.
And suddenly this morning, the last second before the long fall off the cliff, the moment where everything seems so peaceful just before the entire structure explodes in huge gouts of orange and red, right when you realise the Africanized Killer Bee is going to sting you in the left eyeball, the teetering forever just before the baby carriage starts rolling down the concrete steps, that eternally phantasmagoric second before I finally burst into a million quivering pieces, it all turned around.
The answers started coming. The nurse and I came to an agreement concerning how we were going to control my insane inventory losses through his patient. Our LPN got her RN pin AND her husband got a big honking raise. The giant tax refund I've been pining for will be direct deposited tomorrow. I didn't ride the bike the one day we're due for tornadoes and hurricanes and tsunami. I can finally buy my own tiller for the garden, and have found seeds aplenty to start me on a small side business for some extra folding green. A sales rep whom we were in desperate need of contacting walked right in our door with all the answers to my other billing problems, and she was carrying a tub of Bob's Soft Sweet Mint Orgasms. (There's only one other candy in the world that owns me whole and entire, heart and soul, shackles and chains, and before that one thing the combined stripey and pepperminty armies of Bob's Soft Mints are as a moth in a fireplace, but I'm not gonna tell you THAT secret.)
I'm afraid to walk out the front door right now. It's all too good suddenly. Too much is working right. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that there's a fully loaded Pabst Blue Ribbon truck lurking just around the corner of the building and the moment I set foot in the parking lot it's going to hit me at 75 miles an hour.
At least I'll go with fresh, minty breath.