Why is it that we only rush home when something bad has happened? Why don’t we rush home when something fantastic has happened? Just a phone call will suffice and we’ll recollect that joyous phone call the day we are summoned home, because something bad has happened.
I saw a button on the floor of the airport bathroom. I thought about picking it up, but it was resting slightly on the other side of my stall and I didn’t think my neighbor would appreciate my reach. Still, something about that button, perhaps the way it peeped on me through its four eyes, made me want to snatch it. My grandma loves buttons. After a fresh dirt pile was swept, my cousins and I were instructed to sort out the nickels and lost buttons. Buttons. Why buttons? Are we, as citizens of the United States, in short supply of buttons? No; I doubt that this is the case. Perhaps it is because every button is different, I think. Have you ever seen two lost buttons that are the same? I suppose this is completely possible. Buttons are not quite like snowflakes and in this mass produce society, some buttons are the same, but not the ones found in button jars.
I don’t like dinner rolls and ham. They remind of the refreshments after the funeral service. The ham is always fatty and cold and the dinner role has always been brushed with too much flour, so it sticks to the roof of your mouth. If you skip the ham in favor of butter, the flour rubs off onto your fingers and eventually ends up on the tip of your nose. If you choose to scrape butter on the top on the roll, it feels and similar to nails on a chalkboard.
No comments:
Post a Comment