Where does it go? And when it gets there, will they be serving margaritas? What does it do with itself? Who keeps it? Is it bossed around, corraled in, horded up in some fortressed Federal Reserve Time Bank in the Sky and meted out to people over the course of an eternity's worth of reincarnations? Or does it simply disappear, like a handful of powdered sugar blown into a wind storm, its molecules self-dividing into increasingly smaller particles forever and ever and ever, on into infinity?
I have no idea. All I know is, I don't like the way it flies.
But, fly it has since the last time I posted something to the Undaunted Baker, so I just bridged the gap. Hop on over, why don't you, for a tasty cookie treat that will have you thinking: "Gee, where have these Key Lime Frosties been all my life?" Click here.
And I'll just sit right here and ponder the temporal/spatial implications of eating an entire plate of these in the face of an impending five mile run, which, it seems, is the only kind of time that doesn't fly as far as I'm concerned.