I am financing a couch at a chain furniture store.
There I said it. I'm unbridled of this strange truth.
Yet another one in the line of oddities considered normalcy's outside of New York.
I say Jesus' name without incurring a fight of intellects.
I relish in walking the 1400 square feet to my master bath where I can sit and read in solace, except for the hypnotizing whirl of the running dishwasher.
I'm already plotting the delicacy I will whip up with my Kitchen Aid mixer and return on the robin's egg blue platter my neighbor delivered her perfectly moist pound cake with coiffed peanut butter glaze on.
I'm joining the ranks. Without a stutter. Without resistance.
I've also decided I want to be more pleasant like CBS Sunday Morning, instead of a news report in which I wince, hold my breath, turn a crimson red, and threaten to test inertia by whipping the remote control in the direction of the one dimensional talking head.
But it is apparent, I will have to work up to that.
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