I walked along the shelves of cloth, running my hand across the bolts. Linen, cotton, polyester silk, fleece, felt, denim.
I was looking for printed flannel, so a slipcover could be fashioned for my much-loved duvet. My search was specifically for something with lithe cowboys and dancing lassos and bucking broncos, but true to the spirit of my home country, all I could manage to find were bulky hockey players of brutal expression.
November winds have, with a rude and violent lack of ceremony, stripped the trees of their colours. Having once stood and swayed with brimless vanity, they look now lonely and pathetic, like little bald old ladies cowering on the spot, their golden yellow and red delicious locks eaten away by worms, time, or heartache.
The man sitting behind me on the streetcar had been chatting with his companion for a little while. Feeling gloomy, I listened attentively, not to his words but to his voice; it reminded me of sleek velvet.
I was gazing out of the window when the streetcar sailed by a woman idling on the spot with half her hands down the back of her low riding jeans, exposing her ample white flesh to the afternoon sun.
"Gadzooks," uttered the voice the colour of soft caramels, and I was immediately cheered.
I have a sudden urge to find and meet someone named Harry.
Yesterday afternoon, feeling a mite peckish, I made my way to the nearby Wendy's, but not before making a stopover at the Bulk Barn to pick up some sweetums. Last time I had bought gummi bears, I committed the fatal error of leaving them unattended while out for school; Wesley devoured the entire untouched bag by himself, leaving me barren of squishy gelatin edibles. As I approached the colourfully alluring displays in front of the Barn, I vowed to rectify that.
I cheerfully went through the bin, employing the clumsy giant metal scoop with considerable dexterity as I gauged the colourscape before me, and plotting strategic tactics. My aim was to procure as many red (and if I had to, orange) bears and as few yellow and green bears as possible. After accomplishing a satisfactory ratio, I hefted my plastic bag onto the counter.
I rang up at precisely two dollars. I almost blurted out right there, "Bitchin'."
Gawd, he's so cute.
"I feel like I'm back in high school and -- and I want to sit at your table." - Jon Stewart, Daily Show.
I am mystified as to why it would be considered apt that a brand of condoms be named after a people that was hoodwinked into allowing an enormous horse into their sacred citadel (insert your favourite Catherine the Great joke here!). Perhaps it was a classics major who headed the marketing meeting that day, looking for a hearty snigger. We're a pack of cheeky bastards.
Note: Representatives of Trojan Condoms, see comment box! Marketing genuises patronize my blog!
2. As "Americana" defines itself as artefacts of American culture, "Gloriana" consists of the artefacts of my culture.
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