But Woeisme failed to notice her, already caught up in selecting her new true love. For Fig had been dead for nearly thirty seconds. Her heart and an attention span more in line with small insects or large rocks were insisting that she heroically find the strength to move on, like in one of those Beyonce songs where she sings as that tuff lady. Callie Savage? Miami Vicious?
“Ahem!” The Potato Goddess shouted, in a mysterious potato language that was phonetically and alphanumerically identical to English.
“Let’s see,” said Woeisme, counting on her fingers. “There’s that Jarhead guy back in Rainydale, that kid who fixes my cable, and that man from prison who keeps sending me letters and pictures of dead cats he found.”
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