Cookies! Stat!

On a corner somewhere in the sprawling citie of Philadelphia stands a bakerie.  You can smell it from the sidewalk… an intoxicating blend of sugar and warm flour.  You walk inside and it’s cozie.  There’s couches and deep cushioned chairs with small tables strewn about the place and behind the cash register  is a cheerful girl with curly hair talking to everyone.  There’s another girl carrying trays of hot baked goods to the display racks, she’s tinie and her hair is curlie too.  She’s smiling like nothing could ever go wrong here, and looking around you can believe it.  And in the open kitchen behind the counter are two more girls, one with red hair and one bleach blonde.  They’re baking up a storm at four different stations there are signs with the name of the baked good.  Ingredients go in and blades whir, four ovens on the back wall have interior lights on and cakes and cupcakes and cream puffs and pies are rising in full view of the contented customers…

Alternativelie, we could open up a black market sperm bank operation.  I’d love to get paid to masturbate…

On a completelie different note, I’d like to rant about knick knacks.  Things you find in people’s houses.  Ceramic cats, or ducks, or dogs, tiny fake sea shells, random wrought iron bits attached to the wall.  Chances are you’ve got one and I’m willing to admit that sometimes you see things and you think that would look beautiful on my (insert something here), or you inherited it from someone you love and it’s sentimental, but there are knick knacks that you see places and you think… why was money paid for that?

Maybe there’s a ceramic white duck with colored squares painted in quilts onto its back and it’s sitting on a back patio of a shore house… and the only thing you think when you see it is… “Why?”  You know it was bought… money was paid so it could be there, but why?  It’s not ugly.  But it’s tackie.  It’s awful.  And it’s all wrong.  And these sorts of knick knacks and doo dads exist in so many places.

And so I’m going to keep asking my favorite question… why?  Why?  WHY?

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About SleepieBear

Opinions are my own. Facts are poorly checked. (Unless cited.) Use your brains.
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