Dead Sea Lemonade: An Exercise in Improbability for Wendy

Miss M is on a lemonade diet.

I can't stop laffing. A LEMONADE DIET. Hee, that's a good one. Unless of course there is a serious medical condition behind this, in which case, oh no.

Obsessed with the Dead Sea Scrolls these days. Why? Perhaps the toxic effect of Twizzlers. The kick to the head delivered by a four-year-old made giddy by a warm bath. The recurring emotional damage of being called a "no-good farty old mule" by a husband who shall remain nameless.

Now, how to connect the Dead Sea Scrolls with a punitive lemonade diet. . .

Dead Sea Scrolls written 2300 years ago in middle of Jordanian desert. Lemonade diet transforms girl's soul into desert.

Dead Sea Scrolls make plaintive cry to a God who has abandoned His people. Lemonade diet sends plaintive cry from a girl who has abandoned her mind.

Wouldn't it be refreshing if someone found a 2300-year-old scroll in a Jordanian cave that was all about having waaay too much to drink and falling in with rogues and a Bedouin-y ancient Elton John from the "Bitch is Back" days, with the rat-a-tat-a-tatty keyboard and the crazy glasses and the feather boa? "My soul crieth aloud for Alka Seltzer, my God, and yet the bubbles do not come. What gives already?"

Clearly sleep is needed here.

Night-night Miss M. Hope tomorrow is the last day of your sad citron situation.