MY ROOMBA'S NAME IS PONY
It's not that the only thing I think about is my Roomba.
Sometimes I think about sex.
Often I think about food.
But, sex has gotten me into a lot of trouble in life. And, I have a love-hate relationship with food.
But, Pony never gets angry with me if I neglect it for several weeks or longer. It doesn't care if I come first and fall asleep. It doesn't care if I bathe or not. It doesn't care what I do or don't do. Pony doesn't make my stomach hurt like eating an entire pound of Ralph's pumpkin-chocolate-chip cookies did last night.
But, as I sit here and watch my beautiful round robot clean my house my heart swells with affection and romantic feelings. I want to give Pony little presents. I want to call it cute names. I want to adhere little pony stickers to it and doodle on it with metallic pens like a girl in sixth grade would do to her binder.
I stare at Pony the way a childless, thirty-four-year-old woman gazes lovingly at infantsówith huge, dewey eyes like an anime character. I idealize it. It can do no wrong.
I wonder what it's like to nuzzle my nose into it and take a deep breath.
There's a part of me that wants to pull my pants down and chase the Roomba with my penis. You know, like a silly little game between two lovebirds, only one of them is a total freak and the other one is a small robotic vacuum.
Actual things happened today. In the morning Shakina and Joseph and I met to revise the business plan for JUNK: A Rock Opera. After that I had a great meeting at Raleigh Studios in Hollywood to discuss a wedding imaging business I'm going to start up with Glenn and a friend of his. Today I felt like I was living my dreams out.
But, here on my couch, my stomach is smiling, my heart is light, and my mind is filled with thoughts of my whirring robot friend, Pony, and my sparkling-clean floors.
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