I. Hate. Storms.
Always have. I don’t know from where this fear stems, but as soon as I hear any mention of the word ‘severe’ in the weather segment of the news, I’m weeping in a corner of my basement with my security blanket, praying to the Tornado Gods to please spare my house, my dog, my super cute boots, my liquor, and my snack foods. The Tornado Gods would be very cruel to take my snack foods. Although, I’d gladly toss up my whole wheat tortillas as a Tornado God offering. Not my favorite. And they’re round. They can be shaped into a cylinder like a tornado. The Tornado Gods may just go for it. You listening to this, Tornado Gods? You can take my tortillas, but leave the RumChata. Got that?
So here I sit, watching the news, waiting for the next round of severe weather to hit, knowing I have to drive approximately 45 minutes down the road in less than half and hour, and I’m pooping my pants a little. I figured maybe the blogging world would want to know, and, if something happens to me tonight, if my Versa happens to get swept up into a twister, please don’t let my RumChata or my super cute boots go to waste. I bequeath them to you. No… Not you. Your calves are much too big. You there, with the slender calves. Take my boots. Wear them well. Do RumChata shots. Peace be with you.