Don’t tell me some divine isn’t out there watching over us, listening to every single thing every single person (7.075 billion at last count) thinks and still has the time to affect the effect of fate in every single life — a real task, considering the multitude of Shakespearean-esque worry in the world what with all the “O, I am fortune’s fool” — and on top of it all allow for bees to make honey and DNA to replicate and cats to be stripe-ed as they are.
No, don’t tell me this — I’d much rather follow the priest, a zombie (He or I? Not that it matters, Schrodinger as this situation is, I’m so torn on the matter half the time all the time).
Don’t tell me this, because this always leads to that and that’s evil.
Some old guy told me so.
When life gives you lemons…
Okay, where’s the sugar and spice with a side of everything nice? Maybe a glass, too, drinking from cupped hands offends me.
Back off frenemy, you know I don’t like lemonade. Maybe I’ll make a spritzer, or rather give them to the soured poor, or squeeze them into the sewers so nobody has to make lemonade from Life’s spoiled, rotten lemons.