Mamacita says:  When I’m stressed out, I want Popsicles.

It simply has to be some kind of anomaly, however, that in a big box of 48 Popsicles, three flavors, every time I dip my hand in that box, I bring up a cherry Popsicle, the only kind I don’t like.

This stresses me out further.  I put the accursed cherry Popsicle to the side and try again.  Ditto.

I can only conclude, therefore, that the orange and grape Popsicles sense my presence and burrow down to the bottom of the box, as far from my grasping hand as possible.  The logical thing to do, of course, would be to toss out the cherry Popsicles as I pull them, one after another, out of the box.  Unfortunately, I’m not only stressed out, I’m also a cheapskate.  I can’t stand waste.

There is some kind of math lesson about beating the odds here, but darned if I can put it into any kind of equation.

It hurts me that the Popsicles I love best hate me.  Their obvious animosity stresses me out.

. . . goes off to freezer to try my luck one more time. . . .

I really am stressed out.  I have a good reason.  But I thought a post about Deathsicles might be too macabre, even for me.