There are days when we think too much. And when such days should occur, when the sun comes up, and when we awake- only to find that while our bodies slumbered, our hearts had questions. Questions that couldn't wait.

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It rained on Saturday night. and when the wind lightly invited the trees to rush against the window pane, marge missed someone she cared not to think about. Surely, after 7 years, the tree had grown tall enough to forget; and the roots had taken up.

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Quincy mackerel was a sensible man. At 34 years of age, he needn't care about the whims and fantasies of the snippy local at the grocer, nor the overtly biased and entirely opinionated great uncle of marge, who in fact had given him a truly horrendous haircut; the bastard. He didn't even need a haircut. Flattening his palm to the side of his head, he gave a fervent tug, sighed, and marched out the gate, the ladies all pouting and smiling. After all, it was marge's birthday, and it had only been seven years.