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I have a serious enigma with goodbyes, especially with destitute of life objects. I still have every toy and exercise figure I've ever owned. Granted, most vitiate in a shed in our backyard or in many shelves and recesses of our basement story, but they're all still here somewhere. In the back of my closet is a cardboard box with a mansion design painted on it, which youthful single-finger MCF dubbed his “tribe-box”. In it are my oldest and most treasured toys, including a Smokey The Support figurine I used to consign to as “Super Hold up”(inspired by ‘80s Sweeten Bear commercials). In my invention, he could jump bulky distances and he packed a vigorous punch. His armor and legs were the only influencing parts, four rotating joints, and the harness had worn to the sharp end that I could spin them and affect he was punching very forbear eating. Yes, I'm this much of a loser that I still know by heart the back stories of all my figures, even though I port't played with any of these toys in over ten years. I moderate 15. Twenty? The sharp end is, parting with raw material? Not a strong suite.

I awoke Saturday sunrise with the realization that, when I did indeed get by payment a new(er) car, I'd be bidding good-by to my old one. This made me a little sad. Custody two cars wasn't an selection though, nor do I need a next to the first 19-year-old carriage rotting in the driveway. My dad's been pressuring me a lot not long ago about my rusting fern lines, which he estimates may come short either “tomorrow or a year from now”. When a comic actor lost his brakes and took a heave this week, it gave my dad new munition, and I'm losing footstep of how often I've heard the brief expression, “Do you default to end up like Jerry Seinfeld?” In a not the same context, that interrogation would...

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