Down besider agin

There was this crow and Little Miss Muffet was trying to dig out some beef for it without getting sauce on herself cause she figured it would prefer beef to the wok vegetables or the rice and due to her concentration she didn’t see the spider until she had flipped the beef out into the street where the crow pecked at it and waited for it to cool enough to carry it off.

“Hola, guapa,” said the spider.

“Geeze, you, gah, whoa,” said Little Miss Muffet, fanning herself.

The spider chuckled and chewed on his cigar.

With his mandibles or pedipalps or whatever they are.

Seen up close like that, it was like something out of an old grindhouse scifihorror movie.

“Short story is,” said the spider around his cigar, and shrugged, all eight eyes looking upward theatrically, palms theatrically upward.

“What.” Miss Muffet paused, chopsticks halfway to her mouth with a load of rice from which generic brown sauce dripped.

“Perfection is another word for death. Check a thesaurus: perfection, death, paralysis, stasis, procrastination.”

Miss Muffet glanced at the crow, which was burying the beef under some dead leaves.

“All there ever is, is this moment and doing one little thing after another. One little, imperfect, broken thing after another, again and again and again.”

“Sounds depressing.”

“It’s beautiful. It’s the most beautiful thing there is. It’s the only thing there is, in fact.”

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