about your mojo.

So you’re crouched in front of the fridge pulling out the 3-week-old celery and blackening mushrooms and suppressing a wailing moan emerging from the innermost depths of your body – your coccyx [new word! new word!] to be more precise – because last night you got really drunk and somehow managed to sit down beside rather than on your chair, and it was still hurting when you woke up way too early with a slight headache on top of everything, but you pulled yourself out of bed anyway to – hold your horses – prune your rose bushes.

And as you were then trying to stuff the pruned branches down the garden waste bin you were getting pricked all over, but somehow you didn’t care, because you were too distracted by that fucking throbbing coccyx, fortunately no longer with a headache but unfortunately with bad cramps jamming down the left leg too. Hence by the time you’ve finally actually managed to stuff those thorned branches down the bin, it’s about lunchtime and you are crouched in front of the fridge pulling out the 3-week-old celery and blackening mushrooms and suppressing a wailing moan.

And then everything changes.

You marvel at the fucking awesome colour of these purple carrots that you bought yesterday at the farmers’ market, and you realise just in time that the missing ingredient is indeed some cinnamon, and half an hour later you’re stuffing your face with cumin-leeks potatoes and a smashing Moroccan-flavoured lentil curry – which indeed has the 3-week-old celery and blackening mushrooms in it and actually also some recently expired tomato sauce – and you know that, today, you fucking win.

And the tiger balm makes your ass smell like magic.

Win.

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