I’m 6. I’m in our brown, custom-designed van, wall-to-wall carpeting, lights everywhere. I can stand up, proper, without touching the ceiling. I am pleased by this ability until I realize it means I’m smaller than my brother, whose head hits it. It doesn’t matter anymore anyway because ever since battery acid leaked in the van (and I watched a scary episode of The Greatest American Hero) I have been afraid of it. The acid ate the carpet in the very back, the back where we played while travelling, and it turned a fleshy pink color. It had looked like skin and, in my expert opinion, the van really just needed to be put down forever. We needed a new car. But the piece of beige flesh was removed and then covered again with something else. And, once again, we were on a trip, headed east.
Our many hours spent traveling would have been much more tolerable if I could just listen to George Burns or Olivia (and sometimes Michael Jackson). And even Abba would have been better than this weird, Parent stuff. (A Wingle who? Whep? Why?) I never got all of it. But they’re parents they must know what they’re saying. Right?
(What the hell? Why not just name it? It’s the least you can do in that heat)..
(Get an umbrella or stay inside, you big jerk, no need to go to the desert).
(This guy is clearly crazy. If he had to do something so desperate in order to get away from the rain, he should have written his name down after naming the poor horse).
It turned into a sea? And you set the horse free? I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR A FREE HORSE TO FIND ME FOR YEARS YOU UNGRATEFUL BASTARD!
Clearly, this person should not own a horse.
(I wonder if he’s sings about the rain and the cake too).
Here is a snapshot. (3.8 mgs)