Devonne Brown

adoxography

“Make a wish. Cross your fingers, blow a kiss, and send it into the fire. Open your fingers as you blow. That’s right. Now your wish will come true,” said the ginger.

It’s a Fire wish.

Magic words. “Make a wish.” They generate hope, which is bullshit. Hope is what people “hang on to,” whatever that means, when they know they’ve lost but are stubborn and want to disappoint themselves.

You’re always better off making fire wishes. They’re more romantic. Hope is for losers who just won’t read the damned charts.

Jesus, Ginger. Who made you mad this morning?

I’m a cat. No fingers, just these cute stubby toes. If I could make fire wishes, I certainly would, far less calories than that chocolate and marshmallow dessert goo. Making wishes is cool.

Cross your fingers, blow, let it go. I get it.  If it doesn’t happen, the disappointment doesn’t sting so much.

Get hope involved, you take it home with you, wallow with it, dance with it, cook for the stuff. Hope is bad juju. It’s like a snapping turtle, won’t let go til it thunders. It might as well be raining.”

It was clear that the Ginger was unhappy about something, was feeling hopeless, helpless too from the looks of it.

It was up to its pits in some kind of shit. It couldn’t see its way out of the cat box. It needed help but couldn’t put the request in a clear enough code to save its pride. And we all know what happened with the pride before the cat fell.