A sweet romantic place

Hey America! How’s it going? I have so much to tell you. Well, not really anything interesting. Have you ever wondered what it’s like in my head, America? My inner monologue goes something like “Oh hey, that is one fat squirrel, look that guy is feeding him, do I smell bagels, oh no he did not button the “never” button, oh he did, my feet are cold, isn’t it weird that advocados are in season now, that person would not be so fat if they did not get the chips with their sandwich.” My inner monologue cares not for punctuation.

And somehow I still walk around and deposit checks in the bank and drive a car and have a husband and friends and pay bills and pick out thoughtful Christmas presents. I would love to know how this all works. Does everyone walk around with a head full of TV static, or is it just me? I’m not saying I mind, it’s just a marvel.

Oh, and I had a bout of existentialism while shopping for shoes. It was brutal, and for a few tenuous moments, it did not matter which pair of black boots I purchased. Luckily, it turned out to be low blood sugar, and I went with the black ones. I should start carrying an emergency pie.

Last night, Mr. Helen and I ordered pizza from the internet, pretty much just because we could. The only wrinkle in this plan is that the end product is delivered by a human and not ASIMO. Still, the pizza tasted of progress, and we even had a coupon for progress. Good deal, America.

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