Recently, for some reason, I’ve been flirty with a daydream.
The reverie begins with me trying to remember the names and location of all the foster homes in which I was placed. Which is a chore as they number in the upper double digits. And made harder by the lengths of my stay. A few days here, a few hours there. But woolgathering gives you superpowers and in a finger snap I’m able to articulate the full roster of foster personal and home locations down to the zip code, to the cross street.
Phase two of this concoction confection has me ordering the Real Estate equivalent of the “Townsend Agency” to hit the streets in those fine high heels to acquire all eighteen properties pronto. (Eighteen being the number the daydream and I shook on)
Then there’s this montage of blonde, brunette, and red-haired closings. Drinks and fine dinning after each signing. Party. Of course money is never a problem. Everything is going swimmingly.
And then, just today. Just hours ago. On a meander around the hood with my new buddy Coda the puppy, the daydream, this stupor turned sour. Problems with the properties are popping up. One foster home razed to throw-up a privately held county jail. Another property now part of a high traffic Wal-Mart. On a third sits the only hospital for a hundred rural miles. What’s a daydreamer to do.
Come on Coda puppy, we need to take another walk.