Don't you lovely ladies know by now that I hate to rush into anything and took two years to find just the right painting of elegant repose to represent me and my attitude toward life?
Oh, Gisela, how can I find words to describe the glory of that quintessential work of art that was my ashtray? Would you believe I dug the clay myself from a load of sand that was hauled into our yard to fill in a low spot? Shall I describe the loving agony of the search for artistic inspiration as I worked the red clay between my child hands and formed coils? Will you risk tears of empathy as I describe how I wrapped those coils into shape and then baked my creation on the top of the fence in the Texas sun? And then- THEN!- will you weep to hear how my unartistic and cruel parents refused to take up cigarettes in order to put my creation to use? Can you imagine the horror of it and the artistic angst that ensued?
Can you believe how long I can go on without using a single simple declarative sentence?
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