2001mar16. I’m driving home, and I see these two women talking. One of them is on her cell phone. She is wearing a short skirt, she tosses back her head and laughs, maybe at something her friend said, maybe at something coming over the phone.
But they’re not women. They’re eleven years old, tops.
Me, I’m driving home from the toy store, where I just bought some play money, two diary locks, and a small wind-up microwave oven with a little chicken spinning inside it.
The microwave is really cool.