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But wait, there's more.

There's just no polite way to say "Buy me things", is there?

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I'm baded and jitter. So are these people. (And why not follow the previous, next, or random links?)

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Doug vs. Japanese Snack Foods: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3.

rant is where the heart is

diaryland: entry for 2001-06-05 (02:22:00)
In which our plucky young hero almost gives in.

There are times when everything just falls into place, and you realize that you're exactly where you want (and need) to be.

I was walking through the neighborhood next to the drugstore this evening. It was about 20 Celsius, just warm enough to make your bones forget about the chill of autumn. It's a nice area, truly part of the city and yet possessed of the traditional charms of the suburbs. Well-groomed lawns, elms on the roadside offering shade.

I walked past an old woman watering her lawn with a hose. You don't need me to tell you what she looked like. You know what she looked like. She was obviously someone's grandmother, the special grandmother whose peanut butter cookies melt in your mouth and who always slips you a five-dollar bill when your mother's not looking.

In the backyard of the house next door to her was, I swear to god, an official and genuine Radio Flyer little red wagon. It was the little red wagon that every kid in every idealized family sitcom of the 50s through the 70s owned, red and bright, full of loving promise of carefree childish fun.

Somehow, the person I normally am, the one who desperately wants to relocate and live in a real city, melted away. I saw a For Sale sign in the window of a small house on the corner, and I realized: I could own that. Sure, I'd need to save up a down payment, and the mortgage payments might be a bit more than the rent on my apartment. But if I wanted to, I could own that house. I could become part of a neighborhood, and know the people next door by name, and contribute to the volunteer newsletter that--

And that was when the mosquito flew right into my mouth.

I spat it out before it drew blood.

But it reminded me of all the reasons I need to leave this place: the summers that betray their promise by leaving too soon, the winters that leave my toes white and waxen when I come in from a five-minute walk, the lack of ocean or mountains anywhere around me.

But damn.

Radio Flyer, kids.

Never underestimate the power of Radio Flyer.

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