Oh, you got my head in a guillotine

Whether it be politics, drugs, or anything in between, the edict remains the same: we must pay to play. And while we may not like this, we do generally accept it... unless of course, we fail to receive that for which we so dearly paid. A single, but not solitary, day: would that deliver on its promise? Or would we be left feeling utterly swindled, hands stiff and aching from vigorously spirited squeezing that could produce no worthy juice?

But if love is a fruit, ours never has been the garden variety. Ours perhaps took root in the Awful Apple Orchard — haunted by the ghosts of two foolish kids so caught up in their own excitement that they tumbled headfirst into the cider mill... caught in the machinery, flesh torn and pulled, frail bodies crushed into a saccharine pulp.