meet me at the crossroads
We can sell our souls to the Dissertation Devil. (Also: When in doubt, get the blowtorch.)
(Mister Husband said, "Hey, we should do a Flaming Pitchfork Southern Gothic!" but it ended up being just me. I wired up the pitchfork with sparklers, Dad lit them all with the blowtorch, and mom clicked the camera. The power of collaboration, people.)