Day 30: Dobject's Person Whose Picture is On Your Desk

At my desk

there is no chair:

too lazy.

Near my desk

there are no pictures:

too distracting.

On my computer

there is no background:

too personal.

On my desktop

there are no faces:

too familiar.

Don't stare too long

or drink deep at the screen.

Nothing too interesting.

Just

words.

Blank space.

But who writes

at their desk anymore?

A typewriter suffices.

So burn the desk.

But if I didn't alarm every morning

from a song on iTunes,

and sip coffee to the email

like brief excuses,

and if I didn't have an allowance

but of one picture

ever,

but never for amusement,

it would be the call I make

every morning

and most evenings

to her computer from mine.

A tiny colored square,

with a face and a voice

against a blank black background;

the only living picture. 

Gladly pulls me from

my Draconian deckings,

and I'd rather she would,

living and breathing,

than any else thing.

Day 29: Dobject's Golf Pencil

You see, thi thing about a gold pencil is that once you say something you said it an dthats it; no take backs or nothing. It might as well be a pen-joke. And then he ran out of things to say and must complete half paked thogutsh on th erun because there is no backspace in this land; cruel constraint.
    And I've not been golfing all too much nor have I used a golf pencil for a while. I think the last time I did was at the Fun Depot on a gym field trip (I cdidn't understand either, but I also didn't questoin it) and I played putt-putt with my two friends and well that was about it. I think I may have own that is to say I won but who knows? The mind I guess is like a gold pencil too because it solidifies beleifs emeories and feelings as tif they're eperminant instalitations, not to be swayed or erased by the simple likes of men and woemen (whatever that means). I don't mind making a fool of my writing mis-steps, I will just plow forward like the fool I am and continue telling stories.
    The first time I played gold (cursed "d" key) was when I was like 7 and I was on vacation with my cousins and they asked me "Hey, wyould you like to play some Putt-Putt?" Now, and I font know if you're at all familiar with my generation but to me, "Putt-Putt" was not a game of miniature golf, or evn a sport, but instead, it was a computer game about a little purple car named Putt-Putt who went on admazing adventures across space and the jungle and well wherever else talking-purple gars go, oh and he had a wiener dog companion. Needless to say best educational game ever. This is getting strange. Anyways, I was asked if I wanted to play Putt-Putt with them, my cousins, and the first thing I immagined is all nine of us (yes, nine of us) sitting around the computer, that is a simgle computer, playing this one-player computer game. It sounded awkward and anti-climactic, sbut I said yes anyways and then they took me golfing. Strangest day. Totally unexpected. But a gold pencil is like an incomplete thought, you know, and it doesn't have an eraser either so eveyrything else you say or write with one is an simcpmplete thought if you mess up what yoy're trying to sya. See, like that. Once you begin a sentence you have to commit to it or wimp out nd start a new one. I appreciate a challenge, so I'm going to type a random key and tell another story.
dx; ah yes, the XD face, a talk about texting this story will be. Equilly stoanj (screwd that one up) Equally astounding, this could be related to a gold pencil. So whe I was younger, and again like mosst f my generation, I used to tex and Im and the like, and my favorite emoticon was the I'm-laughing-so-hard-my-face-is-an-X-face, AKA: XD. And it could come to pass that occasionally I was /would accidently send a blank screen be in my haste to reply to whoever I aws talking to (yes, we called t i talking). Sometyes it would also happen that I would be mid-texting on my dumb phone (ignore this aside) and I would accidently send an imcomplete message. Whoops! Have to live with whatever I wrote.
    I feel like this si some sort of Bhuddist anti-attachemnt practice. My old ex-girlfriend used to berrade me for my terrible spelling and grammar, and it/ is part of the reason I made an effort to learn correct grammar in the first place. Now I just have to wtype whatever ends up in the screen and just live with it: no anxiety to correct what I say, no pressure to say anything inteligent or even exciting. It's fun and somewhat challenging. It's like renouncing my entire education to the fates of fancy and allowing everything that is to be as it will be. Perhaps we and for this reason alone should write with more gold pencils, or at leas pens because I think it could allows us to be more forgiving on our writing instead of holding it to such high and obscenely unrealistic standards. If what you asay comes out as pithy, liet it be pithy! If not, oh well, you just keep writing. What does this have to do with golf pencisl I have no idea, but maybe a gold pencil is our best teacher for non0attachment and forgiveness. I can almost feel my bran oozing onto the page because I'm not tryign so damn hard to damn /dam it up and keep it in my head. I'm just going to keep spilling it on this page and maybesomeone will want to read it. Liberation through extraction and limitation! Take that paradoxes!
    And that 's why I think everyone should have a Red Rider BB Gun.

Day 28: Dobject's Airport

Always an air about airports;

axels and Apples,

arrows and affluences,

American Appeal,

and airport art.

and aswarm about aisles

are attendees all appearances

and across all acres

asking about asking

and accidentally ambling about.

And an airport asks:

always abiding about America,

always articulate about American, adieu.

Day 27: Dobject's Fishing Pier

Sands are crooked hands,

wriggling snakes and ladders under a liquid shore,

and a wooden pier is ancient origami

bent and buckled under decades of wash.

Walking is watching 20 years of shifting sands

spread across 45 meters of warped planks

where 25 men of 50 or more to reiterate entirely the

5,000 some years of fisherman wisdom:” good” and “bad.”

First trashed two decades ago,

second crumpled by a tornado on the coast,

and fresh constructions receive the thrice worn name

from desperate parents thrice upheld,

and like a stubborn 5 buck tradition,

we walk the incarnate bridge like a mobius strip,

a bridge to nowhere, the parted sea, the middle finger

stretched into the ocean, connects only to itself

and back to the car.  

Day 26: Dobject's That Guy

Q: Who is “That guy”?

A:  That Guy: A Moste Indyspuetable Hisetorye Accordyng To Th’ Myrriam Webstare Collegyiate Dictionarye

That guy.

The person, thing, or idea indicated, mentioned, or understood, from the situation [as a] guy.

The person, thing, or idea indicated, mentioned, or understood, from the situation; the kind or thing specified as follows [as related to] a gross effigy of Guy Fawkes paraded and burned in England on Guy Fawkes Day; a person of grotesque appearance.

The individual human being, matter of concern, or transcendent entity that is a real pattern of which existing things are imperfect representations pointed out or thus pointed to, or cited or called attention to, or fully apprehended from the set of circumstances in which one finds oneself  [as related to] a glaringly noticeable image or representation of Guy Fawkes pompously shown and consumed in fuel and thus given off heat, light and, gasses in England on Guy Fawkes Day.

Day 24: Pobject's Walkie-Talkie

Once there were
brains big enough to dream
there were dreams,
Silurian science fiction

made of walkie-talkies and
automobiles and
interstellar flight,

worlds away from uncircumscribed
swamps.

Day 25: Dobject's Gas Station

 

I don’t think any one remembers a gas station. Or at least I don’t. No one makes eye contact, people hide in the snack isles looking for their favorite potato chips, multitudes line up for cigarettes, and we avert our gazes to the gas pump screen, rub our phones, or riffle through our wallets.

            Everything about a gas station is about waiting: for the tank to fill up, for the cashier to take your order—a break before hitting the road again. It’s like some sort of purgatory: no one wants to stay, someone can’t leave, and there’s usually nothing interesting to speak of. But everyone ends up there at some point or another in some transitional period of living, or maybe in ecstasy or despair, but the gas station doesn’t care either way: it just sort of exists like a landmark or a mountain, patiently stocking its shelves and trading gas for time like an ascetic monk. It doesn’t make anyone’s day, but it doesn’t really ruin anyone’s life either.

            I wonder if they’re the last commonwealth—more so than say, national parks, which, lets remind ourselves, are not always wealthy enough for the common, or common enough for the wealthy. But a gas station in the middle of nowhere is very nearly the same as a gas station in a bustling suburban area, and that is almost as similar as an abandoned gas station that still tricks people into its parking lot. Gas stations are perhaps the last places on Earth that everyone, at one time or another, takes a part of, and freely participates in without extravagant emotions or feeling. It’s just another chore, sometimes a minor inconvenience, but no one can blame the gas station, it’s just sitting there waiting. We all bring our baggage there, and cart it away with us. We only make a small impact on it by either taking or leaving some small something’s behind. No one remembers the inside of a gas satiation, unless of course they work there, and even then I’m not entirely sure one can love it and hold it fondly in their heart like some sort of divinity. At least I can’t. It just feels like miles and miles of space. 

Day 24: Dobject's Baseball Hat

[Apologies to Margaret Atwood]

Snowman wakes before dawn,

laying fully exposed in a tree

molting freely, swathed in stained bed sheets

like an alien Christ;

cratered pit of a city with fuming steroids

strewn with the skeletons and leftover smut,

nightly picked over by malevolent dogs,

in a quarry for Snowman’s mangos.

The last baseball hat ever worn

was an authentic replica Red Sox cap

clung to his sun brunt head

like a crimson crown: and the last joke was obscure.

He wished he was still asleep.

The godless MarvelMen trade him fish for mysticism

like naughty children, and ask the fleshy birdman for

secrets the Almighty Crake has whispered into his broken pocket watch.

Who doesn’t understand war

or faith, or toast, or free will,

or evil, or good, or obedience,

or pain, or meat, or death, or garbage: simply

don’t starve, don’t ask questions,

don’t leave the garden, don’t eat that,

don’t believe Snowman—and revel in the thankless ruins of an illegible history,

and Crake doesn’t care.

Day 24: Lobject’s Baseball Hat

Little pieces of paper live inside

this hat—shaped navy

embroidered with Butler

(my husband’s alma mater)

Little pieces of paper decide

the object of the day

for the top of the page

(it’s always a surprise)

Little pieces of paper provide

just a word for kick starting

word associations

(like baseball hat = writing)

Day 23: Lobject’s Fishing Pier

They’ll probably bring him a fishing

pole even though babies don’t fish

a mini rod for him to hold

and take a picture with

something to commemorate

the day with grandpa and dad

the first time he stepped on the pier

wouldn’t be the best memory he had

Day 25: Comfortable shoes

To whom it may concern:

I must admit that the term "comfortable shoes" makes me a little nervous.  I hear it and my mind automatically goes to 

.

I realize this may be an offensive opinion.  I  know people who wear these shoes.  I  have friends that wear these "comfortable  shoes".  I even love people who wear them.  I accept people as people, no matter the footwear, but - at the same time - everyone is entitled to their opinion.  And this next, specific opinion, I fear, I may offend those friends even more:

These shoes may be comfortable, but they are also horrible.  

I have heard all the pro-arguments and rhetorical appeals for these creepy, gloved-toes shoes:  

• Pathos:  They are SO comfortable while I am also freeing my feet!
• Ethos:  I've done the research!  To date the design concept behind toe shoes is the best solution for fictional, body-friendly footwear due to the allowance of "ground feel" they allow while still maintaining the foot's dynamic flexibility and the proprioceptive sense of the foot.
• Kairos:  I'm into minimalist footwear, just like the other cool kids.
• Logic:  If barefoot is the default state of our feet, it follows that the default design of footwear should be to provide some benefit to the foot (protection, insulation, or even style) while still allowing for the default (bare) function of the foot.

I should make it clear that I completely support a person's right to choose shoes.  But, in this case, I will also offer my strongest rhetorical appeal:  when I see these shoes out and about in the world, I am uncomfortable.  I feel like Haley Joel Osment's character in The Sixth Sense:

Day 24: Beach

Day 23: Dobject's Microphone

I

Poem 478

I hade no time to Hate—

Because

The Grave would hinder Me—

And Life was not so

Ample I

Could finish—Enmity—

Nor had I time to Love—

But since

Some Industry must be—

The Little toil of Love—

I thought

Be large enough for Me—

II

Home Four Hundred and Seventy Eight

I have signed the Hague—

Because

The Grave would hinder Me—

And Life was not so

Ample I

Could finish—In Any—

Northwest I Love—

The sense

Of Industry must be—

The Little toilet Love—

I thought

Be large enough for Me—

III

All Four Hundred and Seventy Eight

I assigned a Half—

Because

The Grade would hinder Me—

That life was also

At home

Could finish— In A—

Northwest I Love—

The sense

Of Industry must be—

Little Swimmer Love—

I thought

Be large enough for Me—

 ......

[EDIT: Some hours after]-- This poem was made using a random number generator, the complete works of Emily Dickinson, an voice-to-text translation website, and most importantly, a microphone.

1. Select a random number between 1-1776 using random.com (1776 being the total number of poems by Emily Dickinson); result: 478.
2. Record myself reading Poem 478 (first poem in sequence above) and upload to an online voice-to-text transcription software (a type of service known for its inaccuracy is great for this project. It is also a very difficult service to come by at all, as I feel that most people, save large corporations like Apple, have given up on writing a piece of code that could sufficiently handle a high-accuracy transcription software, but either way, I found a great one here).
3. Take resulting machine-made transcription and put it into the formatting of the original Poem 478.
4. Repeat steps 2 and 3 indefinitely.
5. Have fun!

Day 22: Lobject’s Person I’d Most Like to Drink With

Dad kept Coors Light in the garage fridge

he let us try it once, we begged

for that sip—cool, crisp, lost on us kids

Those days we wrestled him after work

His palms played dayyy-o, dayyyyy-o

on my belly. I giggled like my son does

when his stomach is my drum

I sing softly just to him, wondering

if he’ll remember my words 

if I’ll know him long enough

for him to buy me a drink

or if his memory will be a sip of beer

Day 21: Lobject’s Microphone

Testing 1-2-3.

You could’ve been anywhere

in the world, but you’re hear with me.  We’ll be right

back after a short break. I am happy to join

you today in what will go down

in history as the greatest demonstration

for freedom in the history of our nation.

I think the game is evolving and all of us

are putting our piece of the puzzle and changing it…

you have to have a quarterback

that has ability to hurt the defense. Too young too dumb

to realize that I should have bought you flowers. I did

not have sexual relations with that woman. We

made ourselves anew, and vowed to move

forward together. Thanks for coming out tonight.

Is this thing on?

Day 23: Stuffed animal

Furry comfort or
frozen fear.

Day 23: Pobject's Beach

For much of my life beach
meant the sparsely-tufted dirthard
pondside of Spring Meadow "Lake,"
where most of the year

it was too cold to swim and
the rest of the time
there were too many mosquitoes
for it to be fun. Bluegills

nipped your toes and now and then
you'd see a turtle
sunning on a log, but
there were no

sand dollars or starfish
or crabs.

Day 22: Over the phone support agent

CTRL+ALT+DEL

God bless (and curse)
David Bradley.

Day 21: Lake

I don't need much concentration
to know when I'm in pain.
These kinds of dreams aren't
worth a mention,
But they keep collecting
in my brain.

When I sleep,
my mind's a circle,
looping round and round.
I close my eyes to see
where I may be found.

My bed turns into a raft
and drifts away
to a lake, unknown.

I see it all for what it is:
simply a rough draft.

Everything can be forgiven.
What is left, we'll have to live.

Day 20: Thrift store

Prom dress

A lace appliqué covered the high 
luster of buttercup satin.  
I found it at a thrift store 
downtown, Dapper Dan's -
owned by a guy named Norm.

I was 16, and it was $13 - 
the warp-dominated weave,
a minimum number of interlacing - fit my high
school body quite well. 

As I slipped it on in a
phone booth dressing room, I noticed 
the gloss of the surface, 
the dull back.

Day 22: Pobject's Person He'd Most Like To Drink With

Who'll it be?
Someone famous?
Homer? Wilde? Parker? Plath?
(Wouldn't Tycho Brahe be a blast?)

Or rather
someone
more accessible,
less hypothetical?
(Gillian's gotten me
 drunk


and good

several times.)
I spent most of my half-hour
pondering these points.

And if I were to pick someone
live,

someone
closer-to-home,
how would my other friends feel
about the slight?

Day 22: Dobject's Over the Phone Support Agent

Questions I would ask the universal

over the phone support agent

if

I had their number:

Would a 15 year smoker who is an

over the phone support agent

be covered by health insurance

if it were listed as a work related hazard?

Isn’t an

over the phone support agent

working for Victoria’s Secret

redundant?

If I need an

over the phone support agent

whose fault is it

and why do I want to blame someone?

What should I do if an
over the phone support agent
calls
me?

Why does my

over the phone support agent

know my name

but I never remember theirs?

Has my

over the phone support agent

ever tried plugging it back in

and who writes their answers?

If I were an

over the phone support agent

Would I need to worry

about dress?

During a conversation with an

over the phone support agent

who goes

to hell?

If I piss of my
over the phone support agent
then
what?

Day 20: Lobject's Beach

Park Crossing families packed up

headed to Myrtle for the week

each summer. We’d get a house,

ocean-front, walking distance

from the arcade with Skee-ball

where I exchanged my allowance

for string and shells shaped into animals

We spend Thanksgiving at the same

beach with less people in line

for ice cream. Guys wake up before

black Friday shoppers to fish on the quiet

pier in long sleeves and winter hats.

Ladies crowd into vans, hot caffeine

and shopping list in hand. Ready.

This year our boy will touch sand

for the first time on the same beach we

walked as children. He will hear the

seagulls, look up to see flying fan blades.

Still too small for ice cream and Skee-ball,

we’ll hold his memories in digital frames

next to our own sand-filled first times.

Day 19: Hometown

My hometown is the same as my

Mother’s whose own mother was born only

Fifteen miles south, slowly growing north.

Her favorite story, she whispered with a girlish

Smile as we crossed that bridge over Grimesland: 

When I was a girl, I burnt down those woods

Over there.

My hometown is the same as my

Father’s, where he moved from dirt and

Disrespect across town - away - to a family 

He could call his own.  Each time he looked -

at us, at home - his eyes gleamed

Bright and blue.

My hometown is the same as my

Sister’s, who escaped briefly to that college

Town on a hill two hours west,

Only returning to a small headstone

In the middle of the green graveyard –

Beside my father’s, below grandmother’s in the center

Of my hometown.

My hometown is the same as my six-year old

Son’s, born in the same hospital as me,

His eyes wide open and blue.  His favorite story

Is of my mom walking into the nursery

His first day on Earth. As she bent closer

To whisper love and adoration, his newborn hand

Responded, wrapping around her pointer finger

At the hospital in our hometown.

Day 21: Pobject's Neon Lights

With hands used to the heat he pried each loaf from the wide steel pan, fresh out of the oven. The morning cold, the quick heat felt good. He laid the loaves side-to-side on a cooling rack and refilled the pan with the oblong blobs of dough he’d just done kneading a minute before.

He slapped the oven shut and walked away to the rear, to the door that opened onto the alley. He’d left the door ajar to let the cold air in, and he could see his breath.

Hadn’t even froze last night, he thought. No need yet for the furnace. Every dollar mattered.

He pushed the door all the way open with his foot and stepped outside, lighting a cigarette. He smoked absentmindedly, following each smoke trail as it wound up to the sky.

How long had it been now since he’d last tried to quit? A year? Two? He’d made it a month the last time. She would’ve been proud. Maybe he’d try it again.

The wind whipped down the alley, a sharp tunnel of air. He shivered and took a long draw on his cigarette before stepping inside. On his way to the front he picked up the rack with its dozen cooling loaves. One at a time they went onto the wooden shelves that lined the wall behind the counter. He admired they way they looked, ranged in neat rows.

He walked around the counter and switched on the small neon sign that read “OPEN.” He unlocked the front door.

Day 21: Dobject's Lake

They gave me the bike without gears,

and told me to keep up

or I would probably get lost on the sweeping trail,

and I huffed mosquitoes and dry-sweat

a fetch behind them with a third of the crane

bungeed on the white street bike.

I think we’re getting really close! Nik called somewhere the thick hemlock woods.

In miles the trail cut through someone’s field

of soybeans and weeds and a cavernous stone house

couched in a bed of weeds and the fallen roof, and we tossed the four bikes

to the sunbathing flies for a look.

Yeah, we’re getting really close he remembered.

I suffered under the sun and my sodden jeans,

And wondered where or if they packed a drink.

Nik wanted to film something in the house, but before he could invent a reason

the owner stumbled out of the field and shooed us.

Not too far away he said.

The lake

was a duckshit pond and a dock raft

deep into Carry

for blisters on my legs

and gnats in my eyes.

and we drank a root-beer cream soda

and opened a bag of chips,

and turned around

because no one remembered

what we wanted to film.

Day 20: Pobject's Fishing Pier

Taylor hadn’t had to tell that she still wet the bed. And in front of Molly Cates, too! Molly’s mom already let her have sleepovers where they’d do each other’s nails and watch Raiders of the Lost Ark and Return of the Jedi. Molly’s birthday was next week, there was no way she’d get an invitation now.

Phoebe looked back at the wide-roofed pavilion at the foot of the pier. Taylor wouldn’t be long, he’d even left his line in the water. He was just going to get a lemon ice with the money Mom had given them that morning. She’d spent hers on a jar of polished shells. “Dumb girl,” Taylor told her. “You’d fill that jar a hundred times over just walking down the beach.”

The fish in Taylor’s bucket made a slapping sound. Phoebe peered inside. It was getting dark but it was still light enough for her to count the fish. Four smallish brown ones and one great big silver fish with a shiny speckled side. They were still alive, all of them. They had a few inches of water, but they couldn’t turn around too much.

No sign of Taylor yet. “Probably talking to girls,” Phoebe muttered to herself. The sun was almost gone.

They’d have to be back soon, Mom had said. “Mrs. Cates and Molly and me are going back to the hotel. You remember the number?” She’d made them both say it five times over. Molly’d stuck her tongue out as they’d walked away.

“Probably talking to girls,” she said again. One of the brown fish flopped over on top of the others, like it was trying to get out. Phoebe watched as its mouth opened and closed desperately.

Without thinking about it she picked up the bucket and lifted it onto the rail that ran all the way around the pier. She tipped it over, mouth down, watching the five fish tumble back into the sea. She smiled.

Day 20: Dobject's Inside of a Tent

How to Erect Your New Halcyon Family Size Outdoor Tent (V2.4.32). You only need one person to complete the following steps.

Step 1. Purchase your new Halcyon Family Size Outdoor Tent (V2.4.32[US]/V2.4.32[CA]/V2.3.25[FR])

Step 2. Remove you new Halcyon Family Size Outdoor Tent from the packaging.

            Tip: Try not to tear the box apart as soon as you get home! We understand your excitement, but first, appreciate your new purchase, reflect on your giddy and childish satisfaction, and imagine all of the exciting adventures you and your family are about to have together! Aren’t you the swellest fellow alive?

Step 2.5: Remove all 125 patented super-safety twisty ties protecting all 5 parts of your new Halcyon Family Size Outdoor Tent. Then, remove our custom made Tite-bond super-strength stretch-o-tape from our new triple bagging system covering all 5 parts of your tent. 3x as protected! And easy to remove!*©

·      Statement not yet verified by FCC or The High Stress Consumer-Packaging Council of America.

Step 4. Fling all of your Halcyon Family Size Outdoor tent into the back lawn to begin construction.

Construction:

Parts: 1. Tent canvas and containment bag

       2. Pole A

       3. Pole B

       4. Rain Cover

       5. Stakes and stake bag

Step 1. Lay out tent canvas in a parallelogram shape with the top of the tent on the ground.

Step 2. With tent inverted take Pole A and lightly push through flaps A.1, A.2, B.1, and B.3 of the tent until the structure is rigid. Once Pole A has been placed, flex the pole to ensure correct placement. Place the tent’s corner pegs into the slot at each end of Pole A to ensure proper flex.

Step 3. With a partner, take Pole B (Note: in CA, FR, UN, some regions of the US and BK, this part may be labeled Pole 3, and is not required for successful construction), and gently tuck it into all remaining flaps except for C.2, E.5, and A.2, ensuring enough room for rain cover (not included in CA and some regions of the US). Be sure to cross Pole A at a 90 degree intersection across the top of the tent. Once Pole B is placed, gently flex both poles to ensure correct placement. If the structure does not flex correctly, remove all poles, flaps, and studs, and begin again from Step 1.     

Step 4. Flip structure over so the top is facing up.

Step 5. Erect the tent using the below diagram.*

*(Diagram not included in V2.4.32 manual)

Step 6. Once tent is standing, attach the rain cover in all remaining flaps using the included Pole 3 and 4. (Note: slightly longer than Poles A and B.) If in FR, use the included bungee cords.

Step 7. Enjoy!

Note: Wash all canvas and cloth material in a cold bath with 3% bleach and 5% vinegar solution at less than 50 degrees F according to like colors and manufacturer recommendation before construction or removal from packaging. Failure to follow this step may void warranty.

             

Day 19: Pobject's Over-the-Phone Support Agent

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Day 19: Lobject’s Pop/Rock Star

Don’t want to know

what the world thinks

of my hair or husband

or after baby body

Don’t want pictures

of Wal-Mart without

makeup or playing

at the park after wine

Don’t want to need

the biggest house on my

street or mad money

for the Ferrari in my dream  

I’ll take dirty hair grocery

shopping in my Hyundai

on Saturday and a park

picnic with bottle of wine