Time: 8:35PM, EST, AKA 20:35MT, EST; BRB…BAK.

Oh, time of the story? I don't know exactly, governor, but I assume it was towards the end of the 1700's, when pirates' vivacity was becoming, well, less vivacious…

Angela was a beautiful girl, or, rather, a handsome woman. She was nearing her twenty-third birthday, and was married to a man who had just passed his twenty-fourth. His name was Patrick. Remember that name, because, believe or not, our protagonist's husband merits record in this our short story.

Angela picked up her heavily-creased paper list and ran her eyes over it again. One dozen eggs because a chicken died, two pounds of beef because last week's visitors consisted of an over-fed woman and her gluttonous husband, five heads of lettuce because of the drought, and the normal knick-knacks and nannies needed every month. Gone were the spices and the sugar; only enough salt for the maintenance of their meager store of food; and a trip along a path that is dusty in memory and perhaps rendered unrememberable by vegetation for pepper and herbs.

Angela crumpled up the paper again and threw it out the solitary window in her petite…meaning cramped…shack, again. Not repeated, however, was that this time a little booger, more formally yet also more infrequently called a child, was hit on the head by the missile. Such a projectile could not cause injury except to uncovered optics, but in this particular instance the wad of paper caused two frights, more informally yet also more frequently called screeches. The first, of course, was youth's unbridled energy flowing forth from the startled booger, and the second was caused by that gregarious feminine instinct to sociably join in with whatever activities others near them are performing as long as those activities are not labeled 'masculine'. According to the sound put forth from the depths of this woman's lungs we may safely assume that having a fright is indeed the very inverse of masculinity.

After Angela's heartbeat stopped patterning itself to the beat of a passing horse's gallop and began patterning itself to the beat of a passing horse's snorts, our non-narcotic heroine sallied forth from her castle in the pie (for her abode dwells on one huge mud pie) and, retrieving her missive of missing pabulums, began a discourse with the voices in that queer topological space between her ears. You see, today was Angela's and Patrick's anniversary (Ha! I told you Patrick would haunt this story!). Yes, two long, long years ago these two had to bind their two families in that all too familiar two-sidedness of marriage. If you do not know the two polars of marriage, seek tutelage, before it is too late. But, alas! Time has sifted into the bottom of the hour-glass and Angela stands weeping.

Look here at this drop of clear salty saline solution secreted upon our champion's cheek, it signifies that there is no money for a gift for her beloved. Look here at these small depressions in the smoothness of the skin around her mouth, they signify that, strangely enough, she actually wanted to give him something. And so now I present to you our lady's delirium over her dilemma:

'OH…MY…GOSH!!!!!!!!!!!! I'm like, what can I do?!?!?!?! I mean, like, I don't have no money, or nuttin', and, like, I couldn't steal…well, I guess I could, but that would, like, be like, stealing! That would make me, like, a stealer! Ew! Gross! Yuckyyy!!!'

Erm…this is proving to be unproductive to the advancement of our plot. And so now I present to you our lady's dilemma, unadulterated by her delirium:

If you couldn't figure it out by now, she needs to buy Patrick something but she cannot.

I'm sorry to say that this dilemma of sorts caused a melt down of sorts, and sadly, so sadly, Angela's story must end here.