my grandmothers turned me into an ad·dict (‘adikt)

In the times before The Boil, I became an addict, and the blame lies firmly with my grandmothers. They knew it, and they fed my addiction. 

Homemade cinnamon buns.

Thanks to their baking prowess, and sharing of recipes, my grandmas’ cinnamon buns became my favorite treat. Fortunately I wasn’t spoiled by them completely, as I typically could only enjoy them the occasions when I visited them (my mother did a very good job making them herself, but she wouldn’t make them for anything other than a special occasion because of the time they require to be made). Because those were my introduction to cinnamon buns, I compared all future offering to their recipe, and came to shun poor imitations.

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it’s beginning to look a lot like christmas – in isolation.

My Artistry has been elusive this week; it simply hasn’t wanted to come out to be exercised. Given the past couple weeks of pain in my neck, spiking workload due to covering for a peer, and my effort to find some passion in my volunteer efforts, I haven’t found the energy or focus enough to write. Time, has been something of an abundance (so much gone from my life and routines since March), so I can’t use finding time as an excuse for not writing, but a mind gone numb blocked my flow. As I seem to have found myself in a moment of clarity (and no, it’s not from being enhanced), I thought I’d take advantage of it, and give the keyboard a workout.

i see and use you every day, but I never get joy from you until I can let the Artistry flow
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