1 is for 150

Yeah, I know. TECHNICALLY it’s not a “letter” thing for the Snake Den.

It’s ok. I’ll go with it.

So, there we are, just rousting out of bed on a Saturday morning. She rolls over, then rolls over again, now on top of me.


photo of man holding dslr camera walking on edge of building overlooking at night
Photo by Josh Hild on Pexels.com

Now, honestly, I have no idea what to really expect when I see THAT grin. I know it’s usually play-related. But I also know it’s usually “game” or challenge related. It’s just not a “hey baby, how about a quick morning diversion?!?” kind of grin. You know the ones.

So, there’s that grin looking back at me. Me, being all cool and stuff, said something very Fonz-ish like “well, helloooo….” and tried to act all cool.

“I’ve decided that we’re going to do a little challenge…” she says.

This is usually the time when you should, logically, run from the room, screaming like a bad muppet, flailing my arms around like that Kermit gif. “Nooooo!” my head is screaming. As long as it’s not Scrabble. I’ll be fine. Really.

I hold my breath a bit and nod, waiting.

“I’ve decided that you’re not going to be eligible for an O until after 150 edges. I’m dealing them out, you have to request them…” (don’t get me started about how I hate this piece of it, and you know, just KNOW, that’s precisely why she’s doing it) “and I get to pick how many at a time, etc.”

“Oh, and if you have an unauthorized O, or even a full ruined, the counter starts all over again. And don’t think I won’t be testing that a bit.”

I want to point out, dear reader, that she’s the one handing out the edges, so she could just choose to keep right on going and I’d fall right off that cliff and be, well, in trouble. It’s also not lost on me that it could turn into this perpetual thing of cycling ruined and resetting.

So, here we go. We’re 27 in. 27 of 150. She’s mastered the art of waiting between edges just long enough to *start* the reset, but not really completing it, before restarting.

If you see someone wandering the streets of the desert southwest, muttering about edges, that would be me. Don’t worry about helping me, my brain will be mush.


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