Last fall I had a pumpkin. It grew in my garden to an unanticipatedly healthy size, and, once picked, sat on my counter for a solid six months, during which time I sat nearby, gnawing my fingernails and waiting for it to turn into a solid gold carriage...i.e. to magically slice itself open and toast its own seeds into crunchy yumminess, and roast its own flesh to a state of luscious, pie-ready perfection.
This never happened.
Instead, in April or May of the year following the pumpkin’s birth and subsequent harvest, I placed it in my yard, still perfectly sound and wholesome, and wished it away, being sick of the sight of it.
This time, the magic worked, and in a matter of days the entire pumpkin had more or less vanished, leaving the earth slightly more enriched and slimy than it had been.
The moral of this story is: If you possess only one small, underly serrated steak knife with a disreputable past, you’ll probably never be in the perfect mood to dissect a giant, hard-shelled type of squash.
Also, or, alternatively, or, moral #2: If you don’t want something in your life anymore, you can ignore it for most of a year and then throw it out of your house and hope it disappears, which it probably will, to one extent or another.
Final moral: It is October and in October you must write about pumpkins at least once, as well as consuming only pumpkin-based foods. This is the most important moral of this most important series of morals in this most important story.
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