I have always twisted the stem off of an apple to the rhythm of the alphabet. One quarter turn of the apple for each letter, so that when the stem breaks, I would be left with the initial of the man I'm going to marry. I've done it since I was a child, almost obsessively. And I kind of make note of the letters that come up, too. Lately, my apples tell me to look out for a guy with a name that starts with D. Or C. And sometimes E and J. Once there was a Q, and that just scared the living hell out of me. It happened in high school, where there was a guy named Quentin in my acquaintance, and he had a mullet that was long past it's due date, so I pretty much stayed away from him for the whole of apple season.
I always play T.R.U.E. L.O.V.E., too. Remember? It would work like this:
MARE-INGENII loves TIMBRAT or MARE-INGENII loves TAYDO or MARE-INGENII loves WILLIAM TELLS or MARE-INGENII lovesFULMINOUS or MARE-INGENII LOVES That Mike Person That Never Called or... or... or... And then you add up the number of times the letters in 'true love' show up in the A LOVES B statement, pull out a calculator, carry the one, divide by number of dollars you spent in therapy last year, amortised by... yeah. You get it.
I'm 29 years old, and if I meet someone even halfway interesting, I still must, must do the little mathematical calculations that will tell me my chances of true love with the poor sod who miscalculated my sanity and asked my how my day was. I even got 100% once, and every so often, I get the urge to tell him about it, because I will always harbour a wee love for the man. But then I think about his girlfriend, and the pain it would cause when she starts throwing apples and calculators at me.
Don't call the professionals on me yet, poppets. I don't actually rely on such things... but we all have our little rituals, and those are mine.
I mean, doesn't everyone, after they bite into a juicy slice of watermelon, stick three of the seeds on their forehead, name them, and wait for the last one to fall off so you know who your next boyfriend will be? I mean, c'mon. That's just common sense. Isn't it? ISN'T IT?
Happy Tuesday, my beauties. Eat an apple. Twist the stem. Fall in love.
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