Honey – A sweet fluid made by bees; an excellent example of something; a term of endearment for a loved one; an attractive person.

Honey, I know I said I’d go back to the plan when, if, the jeans started to feel tight again, when, if, the button was difficult to maneuver. I know I said I wouldn’t need to worry about this because I’d be good and be able to control myself – because I didn’t want to be like that.
But, Sweetiepie, maybe they’re just tight from washing and drying, they shrink when the strings and fibers move back home from the wide-open plains.
Cupcake, maybe it’s just bloat or guilt.
Buttercup, I can’t pretend anymore that I am free, that I can do what I want, enjoy the pleasures of satisfaction.
Maybe one has to choose which on the plate one wants most, Muffin?
Maybe I’m not the person, Jellybean, I thought I was, or want to be.
Perhaps, control is where one finds freedom. Maybe those are the sides you get to choose Snickerdoodle?
Maybe I’m not a changer of kismet at the will of my choices? No, Sugar.
Maybe I’m not your doll after all and the jeans are part of the journey.
Meantime, Lovebuns, I’m putting on my stretch pants of destiny.



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