As she released the beet from her hand, watching it arc through the air into the bed of his pick-up truck, she thought, for the first time, that she hoped there was no artwork or freshly-finished furniture there. She thought of the red stain her beet would leave and the potential damage it might do depending on the torque of her throw and the force of the hit.
Relieved to hear the sound of metal, not wood or something else, she sped off without looking back.
And so Beet Girl was born.
And so Beet Girl remains.
Fighting the patriarchy beet by bloody beautiful sweet beet.
Armed with her sass and her vegetable hand grenades.
She laughs into the wind and tries to remember
not to spit.
Rock on all my Lush Greens, BG
ps=Happy Birthday to my LLSP. 16.
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